Thomas turned his attention back to the elderly, bald curate still droning on beside him.

“Buried him right there, they did, right where he fell. The church had been his life: the making of him and the ending of him. It seemed fitting somehow.”

The curate would have said more, but Thomas pointedly walked away from the church brass they had been standing over and headed towards the gaping hole on the other side of the nearest pillar.

“This, I assume, is the reason I’m here?”

“Yes, yes, quite right. That’s the reason. Digging a small test pit he was, when the floor caved in beneath him. Sucked him right down. If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of his colleague, the hole would have got him.”

“Has anybody been down there since?”

“Oh no. The vicar wouldn’t allow it in case of accidents.”

“But he’s ok with me going down?”

“That’s what we’re paying you for.”

“So, if I’m the first since the cave-in, how do you know there are bones down there?”

The curate turned on the antiquated looking torch he had been carrying and pointed the surprisingly bright beam down into the depths of the pit. The throat of the hole was relatively narrow, but, below a jutting ledge of stone, a large cavern bellied out into blackness. On the ledge Thomas could see a human skull and other human sized bones, together with the end of what looked like a large thigh bone, obviously too big to be human.

“So what do you think it is?” the curate asked.

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

“Indeed.”

The curate seemed to be waiting for a further response from Thomas, but he was in for a long wait.

“I guess you’ll be wanting to get started, then?”

“Yes.”

The silence matched the gloom in intensity. Thomas wasn’t giving anything away. The curate had irritated him with his unasked for and totally unnecessary history tour, incorporating its interminable lecture on the internment of some Seventeenth Century mason who had plummeted to his death within the confines of the church. Plus, Thomas had been irritated to begin with by the fact the vicar hadn’t deigned to meet with him in person. He’d left him to the doddery curate and his unwanted history lesson. It was alright for Thomas to go down a hole the vicar wouldn’t risk anyone else going down, but the vicar couldn’t be arsed to meet him first. Okay, the job he was generously being paid to do wasn’t strictly legal, but it wasn’t totally illegal either. The vicar just wanted things checked out and any archaeology verified discreetly, before deciding whether or not to disclose the recent discovery. Of course, if there was nothing worth disclosing, so much the better. It seemed the vicar liked a quiet life, but surely getting off his arse long enough to say hello to him wouldn’t have been that loud an activity?

Thomas glanced up. The curate was still standing there, expectantly.

“Yes?”

The cleric finally took the hint and left. Thomas turned his attention to the ragged opening at his feet. It looked as if the ground had just come apart, rather than the floor caving in. Still, it all seemed stable enough, despite the vicar’s apparent concerns.

Thomas crouched by the opening and thrust his arm into it. The sides were solid. If he needed to climb down they should support his weight. First things first, though. It would be easier to extract the bones from the pit, than insert himself down into its narrow throat. Not archaeologically sound, maybe, but a swift and practical solution to the matter. Except it wasn’t.

Thomas set up his kit and began the task of extracting the bones. Whatever he tried, however, the bones stayed put. They were stuck solid to the rock shelf they were resting on. Hardly surprising if the bones had been down there a very long time, but judging from their depth they can’t have been that old. Then again, the large animal bone looked fairly ancient. Still, there was no point guessing. He’d just have to get himself down there and do the archaeology properly, or as properly as limited time allowed.

Thomas was preparing the ropes and harness when the curate turned up again.

“You’re not going down there tonight?”

“That is my intention, yes.”

“It’s getting dark outside.”

“It’s been as dark as the insides of Jonah’s whale in here the whole time I’ve been working.”

“It’s gone sunset.”

“And that’ll effect my already electrically illuminated working area, how?”

“The vicar will be wanting to take the evening service.”

“Look, I might as well go down now. The kit’s already set up.”

“Soon. He’ll want to be starting the service soon.”

Thomas admitted defeat and started packing his equipment away, the curate hovering around him the whole time. As soon as he had got the kit stowed, the curate was ushering him out the side door.

“You know the way to the hotel?”

“Yes. This is hardly a large village and I checked in before I came here.”

“Right you are, then. You might like to take this with you. Tells you a bit more about the history of the church. I didn’t cover the half of it this afternoon. Thought you’d be interested, being an archaeologist and all.”

Was there a taste of sarcasm in the delivery of the word “archaeologist”? The curate proffered a chunky, amateurishly printed pamphlet.

“Wrote it myself.”

Thomas thanked him less than profusely and made his way to the local pub-come-inn where he was staying.

A couple of pints and a remarkably unsatisfying meal later and it was still too early to go to bed, but the village boasted nothing to keep Thomas entertained. The pub was empty. There was no one to talk to except the barman and he wasn’t the conversational sort. Thomas reluctantly went up to his room only to discover that the elderly TV had given up the ghost.

Staring out of his bedroom window he admired the brilliance of the evening’s full moon. The whole village was better illuminated than the insides of the church had been. He glanced over at the large building which dominated the village of Bloodwell with its dark, looming bulk, except it wasn’t so dark after all. Thomas could see flickering lights through the stained-glass windows, giving the impression of a dull red glow behind the narrow openings, like heavily lidded eyes, but even as he was looking the lights went out. He checked his watch. Someone was working late. He hoped the church was going to be unlocked early the next morning as promised. He needed a prompt start if he was going to get everything done before the rituals of the church got in his way again.

Perhaps he should have an early night, but he wasn’t tired. He searched for something to do. It looked like a choice between the room’s provided bible or the curate’s pamphlet. He wasn’t naturally a God botherer. Reluctantly he opened the curate’s poorly printed efforts. They turned out to be as badly written as he had expected.

“A devotional edifice has stood on this most sacred site for more than a thousand years….prehistoric evidence of ritual worship, ….Anglo Saxon chapel….monastic community established early in the Twelfth Century… yadda, yadda ,yadda ….church built to support a congregation twice the size of the current village of Bloodwell.”

Well, at least that explained why the church was so bloody ginormous.

“The village itself was once a lot bigger than it is now, with a population of…..black death….centuries of attrition…. a catalogue of misfortunes……”

Thomas could feel his eyes growing heavier. He struggled through the pamphlet’s blow by blow description of the construction of the current church, including the untimely death of the Seventeenth Century mason and a number of other unfortunates who, at various times, had given their lives that the church might grow. Catalogue of misfortunes, right enough.

He was getting more and more tired and the list of building phases and individual craftsman started to merge together, segueing somehow into a layer-cake of architectural foundations and people and sub-structures which led to a sacred site which was actually a large beast with glowing red eyes and it was getting hungry.

Thomas woke up with a start. He was cold and starving and it was too early for breakfast. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t, however, too early to get up and shower if he was going to make it to the church for his planned early start.

He was at the church by 6:30. There was no one there, but the side door was unlocked. He went in and got himself set up.
Good God, he was hungry. He could hear his stomach rumbling. The sooner he got the bones up out of the pit, the sooner he could be putting food into the grumbling pit of his own stomach. The cavernous insides of the church made the rumbling seem loud and when he started to lower himself into the mouth of the pit, the narrow sides served to amplify the sound still further.

Crouching on the tongue of stone that cradled the exposed bones, he began to dust and chip away at the soil that held them in place. Except the soil soon became solid rock. The bones must be very old. Sorry Vicar, it was going to take forever to get them out. Thomas decided to cut yet a few more corners and age test them in-situ. Lucky there was no one around to witness his less than orthodox practices. He carried out the tests as best he could, in a space that seemed to be getting more and more constricted with every passing minute. Small sounds echoed distractingly in the shaft-like confines and Thomas was growing increasingly irritable.

Eventually he got some readings: early Sixteen Hundreds for the human bones and off the scale old for the large one. That didn’t make sense. They were all embedded in the same stratum of rock. It looked like he’d have to dig the bones out after all.

Thomas pulled his focus away from the bones and looked up at the roof of the church. It seemed ever so far away. He heard movement and thought he saw the curate’s egg-shaped head peering over the rim of the pit, but when he called out there was no response.

He was starting to feel light-headed from lack of food. Time to get himself back up into the main body of the church. The floor level now seemed as far away as the roof. The pit seemed deeper, somehow and the opening he needed to get to, that much smaller. He blinked. The opening had visibly constricted. That wasn’t right. He looked again. The walls of the pit were starting to press in on him. He called out and then he screamed and, in the echo of the empty cavern beneath him, his scream came back at him like the groaning of an empty stomach.

#

Twelve months later and the elderly curate of St. Blaise in the tiny village of Bloodwell was boring yet another unfortunate with one of his historical tours of the body of the church.

“Buried him right there, they did, right where he fell. The church had been his life: the making of him and the ending of him. It seemed fitting somehow.”

He moved on from the old church brass, dragging his unwilling audience to the other side of the adjacent pillar. Behind its monolithic bulk and between it and the next column, two in a double row of pillars which lined the gloomy insides of the church like a set of ribs, a modern church brass lay on the floor, engraved on its surface the simple words, “Rest Here”.

“Yet another of our unfortunate servants. Died here only last year. We have been amazingly blessed and amazingly unlucky, in equal measure. Now when did you say you were planning on starting work?”

Norton can’t remember all the details. He isn’t sure how he killed the boy or how he covered it up. He isn’t even sure of the boy’s name or why he’d done such a thing. Norton knows he’s never seen the boy before. He knows because the boy’s face remains so vivid and crystal in his mind.

During his morning shower, Norton can’t help but feel terrible for the boy’s family. Water engulfs his body and soap drains down his flesh, but he doesn’t feel cleansed. Norton scrubs and scrubs his body, but the shower has no effect.

After toweling off his shaking body, Norton turns on the news. There’s no mention of a young boy murdered. He sighs in relief. He can’t say if the relief is because he hasn’t killed a boy or because he hasn’t been caught. Either way, he feels better and goes about the rest of his morning routine, eating two scrambled eggs and a buttered English muffin.

Running a little late, Norton dresses quickly and rushes to his car, not bothering to check the contents of his briefcase before backing out of the garage. He’s well on his way to the office before he wonders if he has everything he needs. His hand feels the soft exterior of the briefcase and finds his laptop is there. Again he’s at ease. Suddenly he remembers he is meeting with the boss to discuss a promotion today.

Norton feels confident as he walks from his car to the office. It’s going to be a good day. He’s sure of it. For a moment, he forgets all about the boy. It means nothing, he tells himself. People have dreams all the time. Just a few weeks ago he’d dreamt he was a cloud. He’d yet to become a cloud or even spend any time in the sky, so there’s clearly nothing to worry about.

But as soon as Norton sits at his desk, the image of the boy returns and he can’t shake it. He looks at the framed picture of his wife and children. All of the children look like the dead boy in his dream. They even have that bloated look of death the boy had after he’d finished the deed.

Norton tries to go about his morning work, but every few minutes he finds himself checking news stories and obituaries. He constantly looks over his shoulder, worried the police will come in any minute and arrest him. When a hand plants itself on his shoulder, he nearly jumps out of his chair.

“A little jumpy today?” the voice belonging to the hand asks.

Norton spins around and sees Anthony Pengold, his boss. Norton is late for the meeting.

“Why’re you looking at the obituaries? Everything okay Norton?” Anthony’s voice is filled with sincere concern.

“Oh, I, uh, just heard that a classmate of mine had passed away, and I was, uh, checking up on it,” Norton manages.

“Of course. I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business. But do let me know if you want to talk about it.” Anthony pats Norton’s shoulder twice, the second one a bit too hard. They make brief eye contact and Anthony asks if they can have their meeting now or if Norton wants to reschedule.

“No, let’s do it now,” Norton says. It might take his mind off the terrible image of the dead boy’s face. Norton is now convinced he really has killed a young boy. He’s even begun making up details about who the boy was and how he killed him. It was a strangulation, but there hadn’t been any funny business. Norton’s certainly no pervert. He’s yet to figure out the motive, but he’s sure it will come soon.

Norton can’t pay attention sitting there talking to Anthony. Anthony rambles on about something about more responsibility. Norton wants to stop him and tell him about the boy, but he can’t. Murderers don’t get promotions or raises.

Before long, Norton is shaking Anthony’s hand and being congratulated. A pat on the back follows. Norton smiles and doesn’t say thank you because he’s afraid it will come out as “I killed a boy last night.” A door closes, the meeting is over, Norton returns to his desk. Again he looks at the computer. No new obituaries. No new murders. No little boys killed. The world is doing just fine.

Norton picks up the phone. He thinks about dialing 9-1-1 and reporting the dead boy, but he doesn’t know where the body is. Maybe he can just say the boy is missing. He can describe the boy and the police can look for him and maybe they’ll find him tucked into his bed tonight. While Norton listens to the dial tone, his wife calls on the other line. Norton answers it quickly.

“How did it go?” she asks.

“How did what go?” Norton responds. The words cling to his tongue as he says them, nervous drops of ice refusing to melt.

“The meeting with your boss, the promotion, all that stuff,” she says. Her voice is gentle and hopeful. He wants to satisfy her.

“I got the promotion,” he tells her, voice void of excitement.

“We’ll have to celebrate tonight!” she squeaks. “Can you come home early?”

“Sure, I think, let me see,” Norton says. He pulls his calendar out of his briefcase and fumbles it open. He has nothing scheduled for the day. He’s about to tell her he’s free when he notices the previous day’s schedule. In bold capital letters: THE BOY. The calendar slips from his hand, as does the phone. So there it is, not in the vividness of the dream, but in two-dimensional black and white. The evidence of what he’s done. He feels his ribcage squeezing, his lungs collapsing, his heart tightening. Soon there is no air to breathe until his wife’s distant “Are you still there, honey?” breaks him free. He grabs the phone and tells her he’ll be home as soon as he can.

Norton can’t bear to sit in the office anymore. He shoves his belongings in his briefcase and heads for the exit without a word to anyone. After pressing the button to summon the elevator he decides he can’t wait, so he bolts for the stairs and sprints down, skipping three or four at a time.

At the bottom of the staircase Norton doesn’t hesitate to catch his breath. He bursts through the door, bolts for his car, barrels down the road until he’s home. The whole drive he eyes the rearview for the hoard of cop cars, but they never appear.

Norton glistens with sweat when he enters the door, and his wife asks him what is the matter.

“It was hot in the office,” he tells her. Their eyes meet and his dream floods out and she embraces him and tells him it was just a dream. He doesn’t tell her about the calendar or the guilt.

“Let’s go to a nice dinner,” she says. She reaches her hands behind his hand and cranes her neck until her lips meet his. Her lips feel warm and real, and he forgets about the boy and dreams. Of course he hadn’t killed anyone last night. He’d been at home with his wife all night.

“I’ll go get ready,” his wife adds. “Relax on the couch for a bit.”

Norton sits on the couch and flips on the television. The boy’s face appears. The reporter reveals the details of the case: he was found dead in the woods. Strangled. No suspects. No clues.

But it isn’t the same boy. The boy in Norton’s dream had sandy brown hair and brown eyes, and this boy is blonde with blue eyes. The haircut and nose are all wrong too.

Norton turns up the volume and hears more details. The boy had been wearing a yellow shirt. In Norton’s dream the shirt was red, and there was a baseball cap. There’s no mention of a baseball cap on the news. It isn’t the same boy. He lets out a long relaxed breath.

Then Norton realizes this doesn’t mean he hasn’t killed the boy. This means Norton has killed more than one boy.

Norton lifts his body and ascends the stairs in a near crawl. His stomach feels so heavy he can’t lift his torso. His wife sees him doubled over at the top of the stairs and asks what is the matter.

“The boy is on the news,” he coughs through thick spittle.

“What boy?”

“The boy from the dream.” He isn’t sure why he tells her it’s the boy from the dream. Maybe he doesn’t want her to know he’s killed two boys.

His wife kneels down next to him and drapes her arms around him. She rubs his back and tells him it’s okay, that it’s just a dream and a coincidence. He’d been with her all night, she says, so there’s no chance he could’ve killed anyone. Besides, he doesn’t have it in him to kill. He’s too good of a person.

Norton wants to believe her, but he can’t. The guilt overpowers her comforting hand. “I killed him,” he mumbles.

“What?” Her hand recoils.

“I killed him,” he roars as he bursts from the cocoon of his body and emerges into an erect and confident man. “I killed that boy,” he shouts. “I killed him, and I know I’ll kill again if I don’t turn myself in.”

His wife backs against the wall. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she tries to reassure him, but her wide eyes make it apparent she herself doesn’t know what she’s saying.

He lunges and grabs her. “I’m so sorry,” he sobs as he relaxes his grip and holds her gently in his arms. “Call the police,” he says. “It’s for the best.”

His wife closes her eyes and remains in his embrace. She doesn’t reciprocate the hold, but she lets him hold her until he’s ready to release. The hold lasts for almost five minutes before his arms go limp and his exhausted body drops to the carpet. “Call them,” he mutters.

His wife goes for the phone. She dials 9-1-1. The operator asks for her emergency.

“Something’s happened to my husband,” she says. “I need an ambulance now.” She stays on the line giving information to the operator. Then she goes back to her shivering husband. Norton’s body trembles as he continues to mumble how he’s sorry for the things he’s done. She responds each time that everything will be okay. Norton tries to believe her, but the image of the strangled boy is too much.

When the ambulance arrives, Norton tells the paramedic everything.

His wife tries to explain that Norton is sick and that it’s a dream and he isn’t thinking straight. The paramedic leads Norton and his wife to the ambulance and takes them to the hospital.

At the hospital the police come. They arrest Norton and his wife. Both are found guilty of the murder of the blonde-haired boy. Norton tells them about the brown-haired boy and how he doesn’t know where his body is. There are no reports of a missing boy, but they search anyway. The police look for the brown-haired boy for weeks but can’t find him. But Norton and his wife are found guilty of that too. The wife is sentenced to life in jail and Norton is given the death penalty. When he sits in the chair he closes his eyes and has a dream in which no boys are ever murdered. He apologizes out loud but there is no one there to listen. Then the switch flicks on and he never sees the boys again.

I plopped down on the couch, grabbed some popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table, and said to my husband, “So, guess what some of the alphabet blocks spelled out when I got up to the attic today?”

He shook his head, lost in the intricacies of his football game.

“S-L-A-Y. Slay,” I told him. “Weird, huh?”

“That’s nice.” Jerry reached out for a handful of popcorn and stuffed it into his mouth. I didn’t press the issue. We’d received the blocks from my mother when our daughter was a baby, and Jerry had wanted me to get rid of them long ago. Sara had loved the blocks, transitioning from playing with them as toys to spelling out words when she grew older. It hadn’t helped her much; she had been a dismal speller up until her tragic accident at age 18. I’d kept them along with several other childhood mementos. I still hadn’t decided how and if I was going to smuggle the treasures to our new house across town.

The next day, I began to wonder if the blocks were trying to tell me something. When I arrived in the attic, I found four of them leaning up against my hope chest, spelling out another word.

“Jerry, did you go up to the attic today?” I asked my husband at dinner. I served myself some salad and passed the bowl to him.

“No, I did not. You said you were taking care of packing those boxes. That you didn’t need any help. And, by the way, I certainly hope you’re not planning to lug Sara’s old things over to the new place. I know you, Catherine, you can’t throw anything away. But we just don’t have room at the new house.”

“It’s just…the alphabet blocks…they spelled out another word.”

“So? I’m sure you could find a ton of words up there, depending on how the blocks are stacked. And you’ve probably been knocking them around with your boxes and rearranging them without even knowing it. But the bigger issue is why haven’t you gotten rid of the damn things? I asked you to give them away ages ago. You never listen to me!”

I decided this probably wasn’t the best time to tell him that the blocks against the hope chest spelled out K-I-L-L.

The following day, after about fifteen minutes of packing, I glimpsed a new arrangement of letters stacked up against one of my finished boxes. I abandoned my current project of packing up Sara’s childhood sled, tore down the stairs, and ran from room to room, desperately seeking out my husband.

I finally found Jerry in the garage and, heart pounding, told him I’d had enough with the attic.

“Why?” he demanded. “What’s the matter now? Can’t you just finish what you said you would do?”

“The blocks!” I whispered. “They spell M-A-I-M!”

He laughed. “You’ve always had such a great imagination. You really should be a writer. Maybe you could make us a lot of money, and I could quit my job.”

I turned and stomped off. I sulked in our bedroom for half an hour. But as my heart rate calmed down, and I considered the three episodes some more, I realized my husband was right. My imagination was playing tricks on me.

After all, I’d lived in this house my entire life. Jerry had proposed to me on the porch, and we’d wed in the living room. Our reception had been held amongst the flowers in the garden. Sara had taken her first step in what was now the laundry room, and I had pictures of her posing with her date in the foyer, dressed in her pink prom gown. They were some of the last pictures of her.

I had to face it. Subconsciously, I didn’t really want to leave, and I was finding words which reflected death. I was giving up a place I’d known and loved my whole life, and the place where I’d last known and loved my daughter. I’d been against the move from the beginning, though I knew Jerry was right when he insisted we needed a smaller place as we got older. Ironically, the couple who was buying the house had been looking for a larger place. They had ten great-grandchildren and were looking forward to holding frequent family reunions.

In any event, it was pure coincidence that I’d found threatening words in the attic. If I looked closely enough, I’d probably find benign, even positive, arrangements such as “LOVE,” “BIRD,” and “KIND.” Perhaps even “MOVE” and “GOOD.”

I had to buck up. I couldn’t help this “death” from happening. We were moving, and that was that. I resolved to finish my attic packing the next afternoon, and give away the blocks and Sara’s other toys to charity.

***

The elderly couple who had purchased our home arrived the next morning to look around.

“Dear, is it all right if we go up to see the attic?” Mrs. Peabody asked. “We’ll probably use it for some of the children’s sleeping arrangements.”

“Of course. I’m not quite done with my packing. But go ahead.”

I watched the Peabodys tentatively climb the stairs, gripping the railing and each other’s arms with each step.

I headed for the kitchen to help Jerry finish packing the pots and pans, thinking nothing more about the attic until Mr. Peabody’s voice rang out through the entire house, “Mame!!”

I heard a horrible noise of someone falling, stair by stair by stair.

Jerry and I ran to the foot of the staircase, where Mrs. Peabody was now lying with her limbs splayed in an unnatural position.

“She slipped on the sleigh!” Mr. Peabody cried from the top of the staircase. “It killed her. Mame, oh, Mame!”

***

It was only after the coroner had come and gone that I said to Jerry, “You can move if you want. I’m staying here with my daughter.”

She didn’t flaunt this fact; she just sat at a grave and read aloud. It was a treat that all of us enjoyed. Being trapped to a singular place only allowed us to do so much; all of us were bored out of our minds. She was a gentle reprieve that we treasured.

She got many stares, when she had started. Many tried to scare her off, calling her names, and damning her to the farthest reaches of hell. She gave them no heed, just kept reading in her small voice. She read for only us who were trapped on the mortal plane because we hesitated when given the chance to move on. She never read with a strong voice that some use, but a small inside voice, like a mother reading to her child.

She had first appeared on a cold spring morning, clouds blocked out the sun, dimming the colors of the human world. Her oversized black trench coat danced around her legs as she walked a little ways into the graveyard, looking around for something. Finding a spot, she slid the dark brown backpack from its perch on her back and pulled out a blanket. Spreading it out onto the damp ground, she sat gracefully, tucking her legs underneath her. Two looming grave markers stood on either side of her, moss climbed up the sides of the markers contrasting with the dark grey stone. The carved words, declaring whom the markers were for, were worn from a combination of wind and rain, making them barely legible. She pulled the backpack towards her; riffling through her things, she quickly found what she was looking for. Pulling out a tan book, she opened it and began to read out loud quietly.

The younger Trapped had floated around her as she began to read the book. I was with some other old timers watching tiredly as another mortal made a spectacle of themselves. They jeered at her, calling her names and repeating her mockingly. After a couple minutes she sighed laboriously, closing the book. The youngsters guffawed uproariously at those who copied her sigh. They quieted down waiting for her to do something else they could mock.

Without looking up, she said in her quiet voice, “If you continue this, the others won’t be able to listen.”

The youngsters looked around, trying to find whom she was talking to. There was no one about, not close enough for them to hear what she was saying anyway. I watched curiously from a distance, wondering if she was one of the few who could interact with us. She couldn’t possibly have sensed us, and watching her I knew she hadn’t. That didn’t mean she couldn’t locate us though. Those who could see us usually couldn’t sense us, and vice versa. I wondered if she could hear the youngsters.

She was indeed a mortal to watch.

She sat there silently for a few minutes. The youngsters floated around her, catching ghostly flies with their gaping mouths. They were speechless, trying to organize their thoughts and work out what just happened. None of them had come into contact with a human that could actually hear them – it was startling. Those with me were also startled, but had seen it before. We just waited for one of the youngsters to make a move, as they could be the test to see if this girl was indeed legitimate.

Francis, the most levelheaded of the youngsters, came to his senses first. Alighting upon the soft ground, Francis glided across the grass and stood before her. He then bended at the waste so that his eyes were level with the top of her bowed head.

“Miss we apologize, we weren’t aware that you were reading to us. If you are willing, we would be glad to listen,” Francis said, always the gentleman. Because of his impeccable manners and gentle ways, Francis had most of the female Trapped lusting after him.

The girl smiled slightly at the words. “Thank you. What is your name by the way? Your voice is most calming.” She opened the book to where she left off and waited for his answer.
Francis made a grand bow towards her, even though she couldn’t see it. “My name is Francis, and what might yours be miss?”

Most of us only used our first names, those who kept a hold of their full names were holding onto a world that had left them behind. They didn’t interact with the rest of us; of course, we didn’t go out of our way to interact with them.

She had flipped back a few pages, “My name is Elsie.” That was all she gave us before returning to the book in her hand. Elsie’s voice was a bit louder, but not enough to disturb the other visitors. The youngsters gathered around, floating at various points above and around her. We may be spirits, but that didn’t mean we didn’t take up a little bit of space. My curiosity piqued, I floated over to listen.

The others who had been with me stayed where they were, wary. They remembered some of the humans who were able to pretend that they could hear us. They were usually schizophrenics.

I stood a bit apart from the youngsters, watching Elsie. She was a bit foggy due to the youngsters who were standing between her and me, but she was clear enough for me to contemplate her. A lock of silky black hair was dislodged by a gust of wind, and she pushed it back behind her ear. Huddling into herself she read to the Trapped surrounding her. A small smile remained on her lips as she read. I wondered what she was thinking, as I continued to study her.

She left after two hours of reading, the book having been completed. I hadn’t heard a word of what she read to us, and I wondered if she would return.

#

It had been a week before Elsie came back to the graveyard. We thought it was a one-time thing, and hadn’t noticed her enter the graveyard. I had been gazing longingly at the brick houses that guarded the perimeter, pondering how much the world had changed since I had been buried here over a hundred years ago. I was brought from my thoughts with Francis zooming passed. My startled washed out green eyes followed Francis as he flew to the gates leading into Greyfriars. There, looking around for a place to sit, stood Elsie. She was bundled up in her oversized trench coat again, making it impossible to tell what she looked like without it. Her black hair were tied back in a high ponytail; sunshine gleamed off her hair changing the color to a dark brown.

The other youngsters quickly followed suit, while the old timers looked on with guarded expressions. I just raised an eyebrow at them, and started to follow at a more comfortable pace. I certainly wanted to pick up the pace and zoom off, too, but I also wanted the time that it took to get over there to watch her interact with the others.

Before I could float a couple yards, George MacKenzie blocked my path. He was one of those who kept a hold of his full name and liked to look down his nose at the rest of us who abandoned our family name.

“Gregor, you aren’t going to join those youngsters in their appalling behavior are you?” he asked in his raspy voice.

I stared at MacKenzie for a second before answering, “Well it beats listening to you repeat your stories of torturing coventers, so I think yes. Yes I am going to be participating in that appalling behavior.”

Mackenzie’s face grew darker as I spoke. I didn’t worry too much about my safety, MacKenzie’s bark was worse than his bite. He may have been a fearsome executioner while alive, but dead he was just a small man with a loud voice. Not having the time or patience to listen to MacKenzie’s rant, I glided around him and floated towards Elsie. I ignored the obscenities he sent towards me as I made my way towards the large group huddled around her.

I noticed that Elsie had already chosen a spot to sit. The worn blanket she had last time was out again, and grave markers rose on either side of her where she sat. A small hardback book lay open in her lap, and her lips moved quietly as she read to those crowding around her. Francis floated directly over her shoulder, reading the words as she read them aloud.
I stood apart, yet again, just studying Elsie. While doing so, I wondered if she would return again to read to us—hoped that she would.

From where I stood, I could hear bits and pieces of the story as they floated through the air, “…other dolls were giggling, or that’s what her mind supplied in place of the silence. Hearing voices was better than sitting in a completely silent room waiting for one of the dolls to steal her soul. She started to whistle uneasily as she picked up…” Her voice was a tad bit haunting in my opinion, but it seemed to add to the story.

#

Elsie started a routine of showing up once a week; it was always seven days between each visit. Our ignorance of time passing was long forgotten, we began to count down the days until she would return. Elsie would show up with a different book every time and stayed longer and longer. With the days getting warmer she was able to stay and speak with some of the youngsters. She never looked up when they talked to her.

There was an instance when she had almost been scared away. George MacKenzie had started threatening her when we hadn’t been paying attention to him. We knew that he had a reputation with the humans for being a ‘poltergeist’, and Elsie seemed to be very aware of these rumors.

The lies had certainly gone to MacKenzie’s head. Truly, there was nothing to fear since there was no way he could actually harm a human. But the humans believed it was MacKenzie who caused them to faint, and left them with cuts and bruises on their bodies. Much like hysterical pregnancies, the bruising and fainting were caused in much the same way. The truth of the matter was this: they incurred those injuries themselves, from all the stumbling around in the dark and tripping over things as they scurried away. Humans could be so gullible.

Elsie had became frightened, and quickly started to gather up her stuff. Francis came to her aid, and so did every female trapped there. They would never allow MacKenzie of all people to shout abuse at their beloved Francis. It was completely unthinkable. MacKenzie had backed down when he saw that he was clearly outnumbered, along with seeing some of the females that had joined Francis’ side. Some of them had some weight to throw around, and their bite was much worse than their bark.

A curious thing developed with some of the female trapped when they died, some of them gained a sort of aura about them that allowed them to exert pressure upon other trapped. They usually were quite docile except when someone threatened their Francis. Once the women bared their teeth, MacKenzie quickly made a tactical retreat.

Francis had immediately gone to Elsie and explained that MacKenzie had left. Her erratic breathing had slowed, and she started putting everything back. I had glanced towards MacKenzie and saw him a ways off, glaring towards where Elsie sat. I wondered if he would make any more trouble. Taking a look at some of the female trapped I knew he wouldn’t. The females had become protective of Elsie, especially since Francis had taken a liking to her. They might not like that he was bestowing his attention upon her, but they didn’t want him to be sad by Elsie leaving. I wondered where I could get a following like that.

Every time she came, I would stay a bit off from the group and watch her, catching phrases and words as she read. I blocked out everything else in my surroundings from intruding as I watched and listened to her. There was something nagging at me about her, but I could never put my finger on it.

Then she asked something startling, something that most of us didn’t talk about. “Where are you buried Francis?”

Most of us didn’t talk about where we were buried, because some of us didn’t have grave markers. When the plague had hit years ago, many had been buried in mass graves, giving the graveyard bumps and hills. Francis had been one of them.

Francis grew pale, which was surprising since he was already whiter than death, and stumbled over his words, not sure how to answer. Taking pity on him, I stepped forward to explain. “He was buried in one of the mass graves, but no longer remembers the exact location.” Some of the females glared at me for daring to reveal such taboo information to a human.
Elsie’s head tilted towards me, “And who are you? I have never heard your voice before.”

Glancing at Francis I wondered if I should introduce myself. I had started thinking of her as Francis’ human and didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes. Francis nodded enthusiastically, obviously relieved that I had stepped in.

“My name is Gregor and, until now, I have only watched and listened as you read.”

She smiled her slight smile and said, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you Gregor. You have a very calming voice. Do you have a marker or were you also buried in a mass grave?”

“Indeed I do. I am buried on the northern side of the graveyard.” I said cautiously. She had never brought up this subject until now, and I wondered what she was up to.
Her head swiveled to look towards the north. “Is it clearly marked?”

Something was seriously off, and I wasn’t going to answer but Francis looked pleadingly at me. I had gone this far; I might as well supply the rest of the information. “Yes it is. They recently restored the writing on my marker, making it a bit more legible for those visiting.”

Elsie turned back to the book muttering something too inaudible to hear. It was common practice for her to mumble to herself, and I thought nothing of it. She didn’t ask any more questions, and soon packed up to leave. Unlike the other times she didn’t stop to say goodbye, but left hurriedly.

#

That night we were following the tour group around as always, the youngsters making fun of the excited tourists. MacKenzie glared menacingly towards the humans, cackling every once in a while when the tour guide mentioned something about him.

Without warning, I felt a cold chill run through me. This was something I had only felt once before. Being trapped, we never felt the affects of the weather, and only knew the temperature by how the mortals dressed. Stopping, I spun around in the air and headed for my grave.

I remembered hearing some of the other Trapped describing this same chill. It happens when someone is touching our bodies. Usually we only feel the chill at our funeral; though, a while back we did have some trouble with grave robbers.

All I could think about was why someone was taking my body. It had been a long time since I had been sealed in my tomb. My remains were probably just dust and bones.
Arriving at my tomb, I was greeted by the one person I wasn’t expecting, Elsie.

A crowbar lay stranded next to my grave, and Elsie stood beside my tomb reaching in. She was levering up my corpse that was surprisingly still in decent condition. It looked like the money my family paid for the sealing of my tomb had paid off. She grunted with the weight of my corpse, but was easily getting it out.

Something moved at the foot of my tomb. I saw a dark shape standing on the opposite side of my body. It stood level with Elsie’s chest, and looked completely unnatural. There was no way that thing was a human, and I wondered what exactly Elsie was, to have something like that helping her.

I then noticed smaller shapes, some were sitting while others stood, they all looked like little children waiting for their parents to finish talking. My thought process shut down as too many questions buzzed around my mind. My mind refocused onto one thing, Elsie was stealing my body.

Coming to a halt, I asked loudly, “Elsie what are you doing? Why are you taking my body?”

Elsie didn’t look up as she continued to lift the body out. “I really liked your voice Gregor.”

Words became lost at that statement. It became clear that she was completely insane. I turned to shout for help, but stopped. The other Trapped wouldn’t be able to help me, and since none of the humans had reacted to the taunts and jeers they wouldn’t be of any help either. I felt my hope shatter. This crazy girl was going to take my body and there was nothing I could do about it.

I could only watch in horror as Elsie got my body out and wordlessly directed the tall creature to replace the slab of stone. Surprisingly, it was able to slide the slab of stone back onto my tomb soundlessly and without much effort. I now understood how the visiting humans hadn’t heard a thing.

The smaller creatures lined up around my body and began to carefully wrap it up. Once they completed that task, they hauled up the bundle and began to silently leave with it. Elsie led the way, her trench coat swishing behind her.

I followed wordlessly behind her, forced to leave the place I had disdainfully called home for many years. I was finally leaving, but not in the way I thought.

#

We left the graveyard rather easily; no one seemed to notice a girl being followed by midgets carrying a wrapped body.

My body was easily loaded into a beat up old truck, parked just outside the front gate. After loading it, the creatures sat next to my body, waiting for Elsie to drive them away. I glanced back at the graveyard, wishing that I had the ability to touch the mortal realm. Unfortunately, I didn’t and could only watch helplessly as I was taken away. I saw the taller creature rejoin his companions, crowbar slung over its shoulder as it silently moved towards the truck.

Elsie nodded to herself as it settled into the back, and jumped into the driver’s seat easily. Starting, the vehicle roared to life answering its mistress’ wish. The vehicle clunked along the street, dragging me unwillingly along. I hadn’t been forced to go anywhere since I had been buried; it was not the best feeling in the world.

Getting tired of being pulled along, I floated to where I was level with Elsie. Peering inside the truck, I noticed that the back seat looked like someone had been living in it. I wondered if Elsie had camped inside her truck when she came to visit us. This indicated that she lived rather far from the city. Looking away from my kidnapper, I watched as the city became the country. It’d been a long while since I’d last seen the country.

After several hours, the truck pulled off onto a gravel road and trundled up to a rickety looking house. The worn house loomed in the darkness. Tree limbs grasped towards it, but were held back by a decaying fence. Empty flowerbeds were scattered throughout the yard, looking lonely without the colorful plants. Familiar creatures ran through the darkness towards the truck, all of them the same size as the ones that surrounded my body.

Elsie pulled up to the house, and turned off the truck. It died with a squeal and clunk, and I wondered if that was a good sign. I stayed silent as the things unloaded my body and walked up to the house. Elsie held the front door open as they passed over the threshold.

I entered curiously, wondering what my new home would look like. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad here. New scenery had never been a bad thing.

Elsie felt along a wall and flipped a switch. Light flooded the room and I was horrified by what I saw. Half decayed bodies lined the walls in glass cases. Rotten skin flaked off of faces, muscles were visible through holes in the skin, organs were held back with string. I hoped dearly that this wasn’t about to happen to me, but I knew it would. My hopes were dashed once again when I saw the empty glass case.

“Why me, Elsie? We only talked once. Is this why you asked Francis where he was buried?” I asked desperately, wanting to understand what was going through the girls mind.
“I liked your voice more than Francis’. You have a much more calming tone,” she replied.

I glanced around, trying to get a clue as to what was going on. My eyes fell on the mysterious creatures that had carried my body. I beheld ragdolls everywhere. Button eyes gleamed at me from every corner, stitched mouths grinned and frowned at me. Some of them whispered to each other as they gazed at me. My ghostly stomach dropped as I wondered what type of black magic was at work here.

“What are these things Elsie?” I asked, hoping that she would answer at least one of my questions with a straight answer.

“They are like you, trapped on this plane. I liked their voices too and decided to give them a warm home where they would be forever loved.”

I looked over Elsie and saw her directing some of them in unwrapping my body and placing it in the glass case. My body had mummified to an extent. Yellow skin was pulled taut against my bones. I now cursed the money my family put into sealing my tomb, wishing that I was no more than dust. That this nightmare had never started.

When it was securely sealed into the case, Elsie gestured for one of the ragdolls to bring her something. I watched as they dragged out a new ragdoll from the shadows. It was little more than a brown sack stitched around stuffing, dark green buttons sewed onto the face stared off into the distance.

I gazed at the doll uneasily, “Elsie, what are you planning to do?”

“Don’t worry Gregor, soon you will be part of the family.”

Picking up the doll, Elsie smiled at it. Taking a silver needle, black thread hanging limply from it, she began to stitch a mouth onto the doll. The needle followed the rhythm of her chant, made inaudible by her quiet voice.

A force started to tug me towards the doll. I resisted as best I could, but I wasn’t strong enough to fight whatever she was doing. My vision started to become cloudy; I fought even harder as darkness crowded in. I soon lost the battle and allowed the darkness to take me.

#

“…gor” Someone was calling me, I think. Not really sure, but that sounded like a name I should know.

Light seeped through as I opened my eyes. I was greeted by the sight of a black haired angel gazing down at me.

“Gregor, are you all right?” she asked.

Touching my forehead, I shook my head a little bit. I guessed that I was this Gregor, but I had no memory of the name or who she was. “I think so, but I don’t seem to remember anything. Who are you?”

Her white eyes gazed at me with concern, “It looks like that fall was a bit to much.” Picking me up, she brought me level with her face. Pointing to herself, she said, “My name is Elsie, I’m your mother.” Poking me in my cloth chest, she continued, “And you are my son Gregor. These,” she turned me around, “are your sisters and brothers.”

I noticed strange statues lining the walls in glass cases, but did not pay them much attention. All I knew was the relief rushing through me at knowing that I wasn’t alone. I may not remember them, but at least they remembered me.

White fuzz covered my dad’s unshaven face. He smoothed the front of his hair, which reminded me of withered grass. “That’s right,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, squinting in the morning sun, which was bright and hot against my face. Dad had left me overnight at my uncle’s house, just so he’d know I was sleeping in some familiar place, instead of the hospital waiting room.

He reached for coffee then wiped beaded sweat from his chin instead. “They opened her arm and the cyst was worse than they expected. Cancer actually. The doctors came out in the middle of the night, after ten hours of surgery, and said they had already spoken with her. I needed to sign a consent form right away to do a transplant.” Dad glanced at me and turned back to the road, where shimmering heat rose over the cars. “Lee, they had to use the hand and wrist of an orangutan. She wanted something natural, not some prosthetic.”

I smirked. Since I was named for Lee Majors, the Six Million Dollar Man, he should have said her arm was bionic. That would have been a much cooler lie, I thought.

I was twelve years old. The only apes I had seen were in the city zoo, trapped behind Coke-bottle-thick glass. I had heard a scary tale about a monkey’s paw at summer camp, but it didn’t scare me at all. As if I would believe that my mom’s hand was cut off and in its place was a shriveled and inhuman limb. I said, “You know, people shouldn’t mess with fate. That’s what the moral in ‘The Monkey’s Paw’ was—”

“It’s not a monkey’s paw!” he shouted, veins in his neck creating a blue “y.” He shook his head as if arguing with himself. “It’s not as bad as you think,” he said. “You’ll see. It’s not.”

#

We had to park the car in the lowest level of the garage and take the elevator up to the lobby, where a giant board marked the progress of surgeries like arriving and departing trains. Dad looked at the number he’d scrawled on a slip of paper and held it up. “2214—that’s her. She’s been moved from the recovery room finally.”

He led me through a maze of pale green hallways, lit with sickly fluorescent lights, and I tried to imagine her hand the way it might be. Black, rough fingers that stretched too long under orange, matted fur. “An orangutan. She has black hair though,” I said.

He must have been pleased because dad stopped at a vending machine and bought me a soda and another cup of coffee for himself. I tapped the lid, cracked open the top, and drank.

“It would have been terrible if they had given her a gorilla hand—too strong. She has had trouble holding spoons with the ape’s awkward fingers,” he said and smirked. “A gibbons would have been more ideal, but the hospital has limited organ donations. We’re going to have to trim the fur when we get home, you know. Some fell out. A lot didn’t.”

A doctor came out of her room and dropped a clipboard into a slot on the wall. When he saw my dad he came over and shook our hands, his palm soft from so many washings. “Well, this must be the son I’ve heard so much about. Lee, your mom can’t stop talking about you. Going to be an astronaut when you grow up?”

I nodded. “Mars mission,” I said without thinking. It had been my dream ever since I’d heard about the international space station and eaten the freeze-dried ice cream at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.

“You’re very brave then,” the doctor said and kneeled. “Can you be brave when you see your mom, too? She needs that.”

Dad tossed his coffee cup into the garbage. “How is she?”

“She’s resting, but awake. You can go in if you want.”

Part of me wanted to see her hand, to study every stitch and seam of flesh that would become gray scars. I wanted to hold the new hand and let her know that I would always be her son, even if she had changed. The rest of me, though, was revolted and hoped to never see it. How could I go to junior high with a mom whose left arm was half animal? I slipped around the edge of the doorway into her room.

“Lee, I’m so glad to see you. How was it with your uncle?” she asked. “Come here.”

Her arm was concealed by the comforter and I crossed to her side quickly, away from the arm, in the hopes that I could avoid even a glimpse. “I missed you,” I said. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly.
I stood near and kept looking into her eyes, hoping that my expression conveyed concern rather than fear. I didn’t want to look down. Still, I could feel its presence on the other side of the bed.

“How are you?”

“Sore. Better though, especially since they fixed my arm.” A sadness like sparks of electricity flickered across her face.

Dad sat in the chair near the window. “It’s good to be together again,” he said.

Mom moved toward me, the bandaged hand on the other side of the bed reaching out. “Yes, I could use a hug,” she said and slid her hand over my back. I could feel the rake of long fingers through the gauze.

I recoiled at their touch — the hand fell away and hit the table. She screamed in surprise and pain.

“Lee!” Dad yelled.

“Sorry.”

She panted, gathering herself. “It’s OK,” she said finally. Mom pulled me close. “Hush now.”

I forced a weak smile. The thin fingers closed around my neck and stroked my head. Fur as coarse as a hairbrush touched my cheek. I shuddered and closed my eyes, trying to push away the feeling, a sensation of rough skin scraping my ear. I opened them again, just for a moment, and fought back a wail as my eyes passed over mom’s bandaged arm: copper circles of blood stained the cloth, and dark, cracked nails jutted out like tree bark. Everything’s OK, I thought. Everything’s OK.

My contact told me Kevin had lost his wife and kid in a house fire a few years back. Poor sap, I thought. No family to threaten, but he’d probably be more easy to intimidate. He approached me and coughed, like a child before a teacher. I said I’d been expecting him, and we shook hands. He shook hands like a little girl.
“Take a seat,” I said. He thanked me and sat opposite.

I’d already taken in everything I needed to know from his walk across the bar. He oozed helplessness. “I understand you’re having money problems.” Kevin’s eyes flitted back and forth, in case of ear-wiggers.

“I need two grand,” he said. “Quickly.” His voice carried some gravel to it, which was a surprise I must admit. Not a problem, though.

“Okay.”

“Do you want to know what it’s for?”

“No.”

He swallowed. “Can you help me?”

“Yes.” I’d already decided that before we’d sat down. “I’ll bring £2,000 cash to your address tomorrow evening. Okay?”

“Yes. Yes. Thank you.” He added, “I should be able to pay you back by the end of the month.”

I smiled. “I’ll be in touch.” And don’t forget it, boy-o. I rose and left the bar, wondering how much I’d be able to get out of him, how far I could push him.

I slept very well that night.

#

“Bill, it’s Janine.”

My insides dropped. I sighed. “What do you want?”

“I want you to stop hanging around Charlie’s school. I’ve told you before. It confuses him.”

“He’s my son, Janine.”

“Only when it suits you…”

I hung up. Janine was such a bitch. Even before the divorce. Using our six-year-old as a pawn in her little games. ‘Oh, why didn’t you come and see him today, Bill, like you said you would?’ and ‘Oh, he was waiting by the window.’ and ‘Oh, stop trying to turn him against me.’

I redid my tie to keep my hands busy. Stupid bitch deserved every smack I gave her. And more!

It’d been a month since I’d loaned Kevin the two grand. A little less than a month, actually, but it was good to keep a client on his toes. Remind them who’s boss. I’d kept tabs on him. Seems our friend Kevin had to buy himself out of trouble, by buying into more. I visited him that night.

No emotion registered on his face when he opened the door to me. He actually welcome me into his home, and said, “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

Perhaps a tactic to try and get me on his side. Befriend me. Clients had tried it in the past. I charged them extra. “No thanks,” I said. “Just my money. The month’s up.”

“I still have two days,” Kevin said, busying himself with the draining board in the kitchen. Outside, a small dog was bouncing round the garden. He stopped when he saw me and started yapping his ugly head off.

I looked away from the dog. “I don’t work weekends.”

“Oh.” No panic in his voice. That annoyed me. “I have most of it,” Kevin said. “£1,500.” He got out a tin from a cupboard and set it on the table. “I can give you the remaining £500 on Monday.”

He withdrew the roll of notes and handed them to me. I flicked through them and then stashed the cash in my inside pocket.

“£500? You owe me another two grand, sonny.”

“No I don’t. I borrowed £2,000. No more.”

“The rest is interest, Kev. You know what interest is, yes?” He looked confused, and I laughed at him. I patted his arm and made for the door. “Two grand, Kevin. By the end of next week. I guess I don’t need to tell you what happens if you don’t have it?” He still looked confused. “I get angry,” I said. “You don’t want to see me angry, do you? I’ll be in touch.” I opened the front door and stepped into the darkened street.

His voice halted me midway up the drive.

“I never agreed to that,” he said from the doorway.

“You didn’t check the small print,” I laughed.

“We didn’t sign a contract, Mr Broadbent, so technically I don’t have to pay you back a thing.”

My mouth dropped open.

“You say you lent me money, I say what money. See?” Kevin smiled back. “But I am not a thief, Mr Broadbent.”

I found my voice enough for a, “Who the hell do you think you…”

“I will pay you back the £500 I owe you on Monday. Have a good weekend.” And he shut the door.

#

I didn’t have a clue what to do, and that made it all the more infuriating. His nerve! A part of me wanted to go back and kick Kevin’s ass, and I calmed that part of me, quenched the fire at my heart. The police didn’t like people like me. I had to be careful, and I was always careful.

I went home and simmered. Cooked some pasta. Ate it. Had a think. Kevin needed to know I was not to be messed with. He probably thought he could handle me. But I could be nasty. I had been often enough.

I’d make him see.

At midnight I returned to his house. The security light turned on as I walked up the drive to his car, but I didn’t care – I’d be quick.

I stuck a note under one wiper: ‘Two grand, or next time it’ll be your face.’ Scrawled in permanent marker. Perhaps it’d rain, but I didn’t care.

I flicked up the knife in my hand and buried the blade in each of the tires. They hissed and flattened. For good measure I trawled a scratch down the side of the car as I left.

Good, I thought. I smiled and drove away.

#

I was out most of Monday, visiting other clients, reminding them of their duties, what they owed me. I had no patience for their excuses or their pleas. Almost exclusively middle-aged men, like Kevin. Pussies, the lot of them.

I returned home in a good mood, and found a letter lying on my doormat. I picked it up and frowned.
Mr Broadbent. No address. No stamp. Whoever had sent it had pushed it through my letterbox. I stripped it open and felt my heart shudder like a struck gong.

There was £300 – cash – and also a note. The note. The note I’d left under Kevin’s car wiper before slashing his tires. ‘Two grand, or next time it’ll be your face’, in permanent marker. My writing. Underneath, Kevin had written in extremely neat biro:

‘Mr Broadbent, please find enclosed your remaining money. £500 – £200 for the repairs to my car. We are now quits.’ And then he had signed off with a smiley face.

I crunched the note, sun-red with rage. We are now quits. There was only one explanation: Kevin was a lunatic. Losing his wife and kid in the fire must have pushed him over the edge, maybe given him a taste for masochism. I would go over there and kick his ass.

“How does he know where I live?” I stopped suddenly. None of my clients knew where I lived for obvious reasons. Still, no time to worry about that now. Maybe when I’d got Kevin pissing blood he’d realized I’m not someone to mess with, and then he’d try his very best to forget all about me.

I hadn’t even taken my shoes off and I went out again, adrenaline fermenting, expectation rising. I drove to his house. His car sat on the drive and had inflated tires again. I rang the bell. This time when he answered I put my foot against the doorjamb in case he tried to close me out.

He just stared at me. “Can I help you, Mr. Broadbent?”

I pushed him backwards, following him into the hall and knocking the door closed behind me.

“Think you’re funny, do you?” I snarled at him.

“No. I’ve been told often that I don’t have a sense of humor. Why are you holding me?”

I shoved him and he fell over like a Goddamn fairy. Outside I could hear his little rat of a dog barking.

“I want my money,” I said to him.

“I gave you your money,” he whimpered, holding up his hands to protect his face. “I saw you attack my car so I deducted the bill from that last payment…”

I kicked him in the gut, and he squawked. “I decide what you owe me, not you.” Growled it. Skin hot and prickly. Pulse throbbing behind my eyes.

“Please, Mr Broadbent…”

Rushing in my ears. I kicked him again, harder. Lips pulled back in a sneer. He started to cry, clutching his stomach and rolling on the kitchen floor, spit bubbling out of his mouth. Rat-dog scratched at the back door, yelping for his fallen master. One last kick. Thwump. His scream.

I grinned, panting now. I rolled my shoulders, cricked my neck, looked out into the lounge. I saw his TV, a flat-screen. Expensive. I went in and picked it up under one arm. I crossed to the front door and opened it. Kevin lay moaning at the end of the hall.

I took his TV. “Now we’re quits,” I said.

#

Turned out I was right. Kevin was a lunatic. But I guess even then it was too late.

The next morning I showered as usual, went into the bedroom in just a towel, chased by tendrils of mist. And that’s when I saw the knife impaled in the dresser. Not only that – it was the penknife I’d used to scratch his car. I certainly hadn’t left it like that.

My blood ran cold. I knew who the culprit was. Kevin, the babbling pansy I’d left curled up and crying on the floor, had broken into my house. And not only that – he’d left me a message whilst I’d been showering in the next room. I hadn’t heard a thing.

There was a note impaled by the knife. I plucked it out with shaking hands and read: ‘Don’t start what you can’t finish. I’ve replaced my TV.’ Signed smiley face.

I was furious, and maybe a little scared, I don’t care to admit. The smiley face kept smiling at me. I scrunched up the note and looked about the room, as if Kevin was still here, hiding, waiting to pounce.

The room was empty. The lunatic had left the building. My heart wouldn’t calm down.

Kevin had cleared a space on the dresser to impale the note, and I noticed now that a photo frame lay face down. I righted it immediately and set it in its rightful position – my son, Charlie, wearing an Arsenal shirt and grinning in the sunshine. This photo had been taken some months back now, before the divorce. I felt sick to think of Kevin holding it, his fingerprints on the glass. Had he held it? Looked at it? Studied my son?

A shiver danced down my spine. I un-scrunched the note and read it again, with the cool air stinging my skin and my head clear of the warm shower mist.‘Don’t start what you can’t finish.’

A threat, definitely. Who the hell does this nut-job think he is? I make the threats!

And: ‘I’ve replaced my TV.’ Smiley face.

His TV was in the boot of my car. I planned to sell it.

“Oh, you bastard.” I ran downstairs, holding the towel at my waist, and threw open the lounge door. The stand stood empty. My TV was gone.

#

Steal my TV, will you, eh, you dumb bastard? I seethed behind the wheel. My temples throbbed. A car pulled out from a side road making me brake, and I swore and honked the horn. I’d taken ten minutes to dress. Another minute to bring in Kevin’s TV from my boot and set it on the stand in the lounge. Just a little swap? You bugger. You stupid stupid bugger. I pulled up on Kevin’s drive. His car was gone, and for a few moments this outraged me immensely. Until I realized that was probably for the best. Had Kevin been home I would probably have killed him. I’d got out my car with a baseball bat in my hand, after all. Killing him would have put me in a world of shit.

I had decided on just smashing a few windows and perhaps the porch glazing (and to hell with the neighbours) when I heard the dog barking. Rat-dog, tethered in the back garden. Probably heard me pull up. Heard my breathing. Perhaps smelled my rage like vinegar. I went round the back, reaching over and sliding the bolt back across the gate.

Rat-dog was bouncing on the grass, yipping and lapping, all grey-matted fur and eyes too big for its head. I knocked the bat against my thigh, studying the revolting creature. Then I beat it to death, and the yapping stopped.

#

I’d never felt better. I drove home whistling, washed the blood from the bat (and my hands) and then ate lunch out. I even tipped the waitress. In the afternoon I had a massive argument with Janine. I phoned her up and explained very calmly what a bitch she was, and how I’d never loved her anyway. She started crying at some point, and told me she’d never let me see Charlie again. I said that was fine by me. “Kid’s ugly. He looks like you,” I said. She put the phone down.

Yes, all in all a very good day. It was about 9 o’clock that night when the phone rang. A dark and cloudy night. I thought it’d be Janine.

“Hello?” I said.

“You killed my dog.” Not Janine. The bloody nut-job again. Had probably spent the day crying, holding his dog’s corpse and rocking it.

“I told you I’m not to be messed with, Kevin. Now, about my money…”

“No, I’m not to be messed with.” His voice like that of the Demon in The Exorcist. I actually found it more shocking coming out of Kevin – poor, weak, blubbering Kevin – than out of little Linda Blair. “Turn on your security light,” he said.

“What?”

“Your security light. Turn it on.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Now I was scared. I was shitting-my-pants scared. I carried the phone to the hall and switched on the light. Sitting on the bonnet of my car, propped up against the windscreen, was a shop mannequin in an Arsenal shirt and a butcher’s knife through its heart.

“You took away my baby,” Kevin said. “Now I’m going to take away yours.”

#

Janine didn’t answer. I phoned her mobile and then the house phone, driving one handed, pedal to the floor. I rang again and again as I burned through the night streets, and I began to think Kevin had already killed them – that my son and ex-wife were already dead.

On the fourth phone call, Janine picked up.

“Stop phoning me, you bastard,” she said, and her voice had never sounded so good. She hung up before I could speak, and the next time I rang the phone was off the hook. They’re still alive, I told myself. There’s still time.

I looked at my watch. I don’t know why. I had no idea how much of a head start Kevin had on me. He could have phoned me from outside their house. I didn’t doubt he had their address.

I ran a red light and got a horn blare for my trouble. Perhaps I’d pick up a police tail. They’d have to help me then. I’d thought of dialling 911, of course, but dismissed it. The police wouldn’t take a threat like that seriously – they got such reports all the time. They might send a patrol car round in an hour or so, but by then it’d be too late. And I wasn’t going to mention me killing his dog and beating him up and stealing his TV and wrecking his car and fleecing him. Jeez, no wonder he’s pissed! I thought. I didn’t find it funny in the least.

It took me twenty minutes to cross town and reach the cottage Janine shared with Charlie. Kevin’s car was parked outside, scratch down the bodywork a white contrail by the moonlight. I got out, holding the bat, still tinted pink with rat-dog’s blood. I didn’t feel the wind, nor the cold. I felt sick. I felt like a wobbly jelly man.

The front of the house slept in darkness, but the side gate was open. I went round the back, gripping the bat and ready to swing. The back garden was dark with night, though the kitchen light was on. I crept up to the window and peered inside, and nearly uncoiled harmlessly to the ground. My son and ex-wife were tied to two kitchen chairs, both gagged. I gripped the bat tighter, jaw clenched, eyes narrow. I looked for Kevin. He was not in the kitchen.

Charlie and Janine both struggled in their binds. They were both alive. I would save them. I tried the back door. It was unlocked, and I crept my way into the kitchen. Janine and Charlie spotted me, and their eyes, their red and streaming and burning eyes, widened. I put a finger to my lips. Ssssh. I checked the door to the dining room, which was ajar. The room beyond appeared empty.

Where’s Kevin?

I approached Janine, and was reaching for her gag when I saw her eyes settle on something over my shoulder and balloon – something or someone.

Instead of turning round and getting a fist in the face – isn’t that what always happened? – I threw myself over the breakfast bar and crashed down on the other side, bringing the bat to bear. Kevin had skulked up behind me and sprayed something into the air – mace, probably – hoping to get my face if I turned. So that’s why my ex-wife and son’s eyes were so red.

I’d thrown myself over the breakfast bar and avoided the irritant, and Kevin lunged after me, through the cloud of mace he’d just sprayed. He roared, his face turning red, and dived over the bar at me. I didn’t have room to wield the bat or swing it. We wrestled, and more mace got sprayed until my own eyes were burning, my face itching.

I pushed him into the fridge and he dropped the spray, howling like a wounded animal. I jabbed him with the bat, my eyes streaming, adrenaline turning my insides into a furnace. I think I caught him in the balls. Kevin stumbled backwards and fell over into the dining room. Finally, I had room to raise the bat, and I stood there wielding it above my head, Charlie and Janine tied in their chairs behind me.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” I screamed, wiping my face. He was just a blur on the carpet. I could barely see. “Goddamn psycho!”

He took something out of his pocket, and I heard Janine moan frantically behind me through her gag. Too small to be a gun. A knife? Possibly – it shone like metal. Anyway, his vision couldn’t be that much better than mine at the moment – he’d given himself a face full of mace too. I fancied my chances with the bat.

It wasn’t a knife. It was a lighter. There was a flash, and suddenly the dining room was bright with flames and a trail was burning along the kitchen floor towards Janine’s feet.

He lost his wife and kid in a house fire a few years back. Poor sap. I remembered my contact’s words, and I knew there and then and with certainty that Kevin hadn’t lost his wife and kid. He’d murdered them. Burned them down in his own house. And why? Because he was crazy, that’s why.

I saw the flames lick Janine’s feet, heard her screams. And then Kevin charged at me. I saw and heard and felt him coming, and I got a good firm swing behind the bat and caught him clean against the side of the head.

He made no sound, merely crashed down behind the breakfast bar and lay still whilst the flames grew around him. I dropped the bat and rushed to Janine’s side. She’d lifted her feet onto the chair as smoke billowed a cloak around her, and the fire nibbled on the chair legs.

I dragged the chair out of the flames and pulled out her gag.

“Take Charlie!” She screamed at me. Yes dear, whatever you say, dear. I almost laughed.

The knife block on the worktop held seven knives, and the first one I pulled had a serrated edge. I hacked through the binds tying Janine to the chair and shouted, “Go! Open the back door!”

I continued to Charlie, sawing through his rope and scooping him in my arms without removing his gag. The ceiling swam with smoke and the flames nested in the cupboards and curled the linoleum. I hopped across the kitchen and followed my ex-wife out the back door and into the fresh air.

I stripped out Charlie’s gag, and he spluttered and coughed and spat and then hugged me without saying a word. And then Janine was there too, and she had her arm around me, and for a moment the three of us crouched there on the grass, holding each other.

I broke away from them and said, “I have to get him.”

And Janine fixed me with eyes like a fortune-teller’s orb. “What?”

“I can’t leave him in there.”

“He tried to kill us!”

Which was true, but I approached the back door anyway, and peered into the smoke and flames because a part of this was my fault – maybe a large part – and perhaps men like me can feel guilt after all. I don’t know. All I do know is that I went back into the kitchen and fully intended to drag him out.

And when I saw the breakfast bar burning like the sun and realized Kevin was already dead and cremated, I felt both relieved and inconsolably sad.