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The darkness of the cave was an ever present friend. Always there to hug away the tears, or talk about how much of a bitch that Marilyn from the typing pool was. It wasn’t complete darkness, but it might as well have been. It didn’t matter to her whether there was light or not, she was stuck here for the rest of existence, faithfully guarding and protecting. Like a good wife. The pool of blue gurgling liquid spat bubbles over the side of the deep recess that held it. It fizzled and soaked into the soil, turning the ground slightly blue. Random spats of blue lined the ground and walls; becoming less frequent from the recess. The eery blue glow satiated her nerves a little. The pulsing anxiety and dark realisation of where she really was and why she was there took a back seat when she could stare into the gloopy liquid. She could sit there for hours densely peering into bubbling liquid, trying to decipher the hidden meanings and codes from the gurgling and spitting. The blue liquid threw faint blue light over the walls and gave enough light to walk with, but not enough to read with, or to write the Great American Novel under. She had always wanted to write a book. Sometimes it would be a guide to cooking with an oven that isn’t working properly, and then some days it would be a saga of epic proportions, detailing the journeys of intergalactic bounty hunters as they try and hunt down the last known human being before he enacts his grim revenge against a universe that almost wiped out his race before turning their backs on him when charity was needed. Sometimes it would just be a list of things that she had needed to do. A single passage opened into the high ceiling. Occasionally it would be filled with bright white light, allowing her to see clearly and see her full surroundings. This occurrence was rare and didn’t happen at a regular interval unlike the blue liquid which gave her constant sight. She sat, staring into the recess. She had managed to garner enough information to figure out why she was there and why she couldn’t leave. The liquid had told her that she was the saviour of the Universe and that only she could protect the human race from itself. She must guard the secret, which is hidden deep into the depths of the Earth, from all the impostors or charlatans wanting to use the secret for their own ends. Drowned deep within the liquid was the secret of the Universe. Of course she was forbidden to look at it, and she wasn’t even allowed to touch the liquid or she would face the wrath of God, and she didn’t want that she decided. She didn’t even know what form the secret had taken. Was it an immortal scroll with a few but devastatingly powerful words written on it? Or was it a holy loaf of bread? She was only to know at one time. Eventually, come Judgement Day she would ascend from her holding place and travel to His Highness ready and eager for her task; the task that she had been getting groomed for. For a long time now her skin had become saggy and hung from her bones like a sheet of paper ready to be written upon. She would encase the secret of the Universe inside her body and become a host for it. It would take her and make her perfect again. No, not again. Just perfect. She had never been perfect before. The liquid told her this. The importance of her impending job weighed upon her sharp shoulders, probing her while she slept on the hard ground, invading her dreams, tempting her with visions of failure; visions of a bearded man cascading her with insults and unholy insinuations, recounting events and events of where she had disappointed him with mystical clarity. These things hadn’t happened, she was sure of this, but her tempter wasn’t a man of small boundaries and minor fracas. She was obviously being spoken to be the Devil himself. He was speaking to her at a time when God could not communicate and guide; in her dreams. Sometimes her immortal tempter would try and coax her with visions of a World completely different to the one that she inhabited. A World of green grass instead of dull weeds and fungi. A World where every man and woman is free to do their own bidding instead of being an eternal slave to a man who won’t appreciate the task that she had undertaken. A World where food and water were plentiful and there were no barriers of eating or drinking too much. He even claimed that the slavery of men and other unholy acts, like a hose pipe ban were acts of God himself, wanting to keep the men and women of Earth where they are, under His rule. These visions did nothing to dissuade her though and she stayed steadfast in the knowledge that as soon as she awoke from her devilish nightmares she could listen to the soothing words of her Lord and rejoice in the benefits that He brought her. Her stomach began to growl with increasing anger and flared temperament as the time went on. To her it was another test to keep her on the righteous path, away from temptation and delivering her from evil. Over the time she had spent in her sanctuary the liquid had begun to grow brighter and bubbled higher and higher. She took this to mean that the time of her eventual mission was growing closer and closer. She would soon be sitting on God’s left hand, witnessing His acts of kindness and love to all of His creatures, humans included. If she had her way the human race wouldn’t be given absolution and entry into Heaven, they would be made to burn and melt in Hell’s fiery lakes while being prodded with heavy brands that imprint horrid words and the devil’s number into the back of their necks. She didn’t know why she felt like this, but when Judgement Day came she would be absolved because of her Mission. The liquid told her so. As the liquid bubbled higher and higher The Devil’s dreams became more virulent and heretical, showing her horrific things. Disgusting sights of men beating other men to the floor, bursting their lips open mixed with horrifying fields of dead bodies brutally murdered by hostile governments. One night as the liquid almost bubbled over the lip of the recess she slept fitfully, tossing and turning, sweating heavily from the brow. In her conscious, as she slept she was being shown the worst vision since she woke in the cave. She found herself in the middle of a busy street, cobbles lay underfoot. Ahead of her stretched a long, narrow street with shops and houses that loomed over her like they had consumed too much alcohol and couldn’t balance properly. Balconies jutted out and balanced on nothing with matronly women hanging pastel coloured sheets over the side wanting them to dry. People milled around her, no one looking at her or even acknowledging her existence. A channel ran through the middle of the street and no one walked across it. At the end of the street she could see a small girl. A girl who must have been at least seven but looked very small. Her arms were tiny in proportion to her body and her legs stuck out like spindly sticks. Her hair was long and golden. It was wrapped in a long plait. Their eyes locked. The girl started running toward her, spindly legs looking like they were to snap under any pressure. Her sandals pounded silently against the cobbles. Her hair swung behind her, being knocked from left to right with each lunge. She travelled with alarming speed, cruising along the cobbles with ease, never leaving eye contact. As the girl got closer and closer her face became easier to see. Her eyes sat like two clouds recessed into two deep holes. Her lips were small and wrinkled. As the girl launched down the lane she began to grow older and greyer, her hair becoming longer and stragglier and her dress starting to fray and tear with each skip. Her face became creased and wrinkled, lips shriveling and pursing. Skin began to peal away from her forehead and break off. Raw flesh poked out from under the broken skin and it was riddled with maggots and mould. A rancid smell hit her face as another tear split the girl’s lips in two, a cut and torn tongue poking out from between them. She belched loudly and vomited over her feet as the girl got ever closer and closer. Hair began to fall out in messy lumps, chunks of scalp attached at the base. They slapped against the cobbles with a sickening shlup. Another urge to vomit hung heavily in her chest, but she swallowed hard and pushed it down into the pits of her stomach. The girl was two houses away now and she could see her in full detail. The girl had now become entirely bald and her head was bleeding heavily over her face. Her face ran red with blood but her eyes shone like two diamonds in the thick viscous liquid. Her lips had come apart now and her mouth had split down the middle, the cut stretching all the way up to her nose exposing two large nostrils that bubbled as the blood rushed past it. The girl stopped. Blood ran off her dress and splattered onto the street, soon creating a puddle around her. The girl raised a finger toward her. The end of it had fallen leaving a bone sticking out of a lump of flesh. Her broken lips came together to pout but the more they struggled to come together, the more the rips tore. She woke up covered with sweat, shards of gravel poking into her face. She had never experienced a vision as graphic or disgusting as this before. They had been tame excursions into possible futures, showing horrific sights and countless dead bodies being piled on to one another as the whole World came to a grounding halt and billions of people dropped off the face of the Planet. The blue puddle bubbled with an heightened intensity, like it knew of the visions she had been shown and wanted to tighten it’s grip on her faith, guiding her on His path. She raised herself into a comfortable sitting position. There hadn’t been many times of comfort in the cave. She couldn’t sit for longer than half an hour in one position because of the random stones and twigs that dug into her body. Every night; which she qualified by being the time she wanted to sleep, she would have to brush away any stones or twigs so she could try and establish a prolonged period of sleep. Her basic nature told her that she needed to sleep. When she didn’t and went for a long time without it the visions would become more and more violent and realistic. Not obliquely, but in a manner that they looked more real and stayed in her head, kicking her in the long hours talking to the liquid. So, she knew that she needed to sleep. It was the Godliest thing she could do at the time being. She knew that soon she wouldn’t need to sleep, but while she was here she needed it. In the morning, when she woke from a night’s dreaming all the stones would have returned to their original place, poking into her back and sides, sticking themselves to the side of face. The day after the vision of the girl running toward her she doubled her efforts to understand what the liquid was trying to tell her. She sat for hours mentally recording all the bubbles and glugs, deciphering some into legible sentences, others she couldn’t place in a context so they were discarded. ‘Even deities have they’re off days’ she had thought. Her eyes started to sting and close themselves involuntarily on that night. As the day dragged on she had found that she had needed to prop herself up on her fists, leaning against them while she sat cross legged, looking deeply into the pool. She had garnered some humble truths that day, but nothing about how long it would be until she would ascend. Although she wouldn’t like to say the words out loud about how these dreams were affecting her, whenever one of the night visions was remembered it brought with it the sickening clang of fear and disgust that it had dared to illicit from her. She struggled to push it back down as the days went on, but as she lay on her side, bringing her hands to form a pillow under her face, the face of the girl came back to her, staring directly at her, trying to form a word but not being able to because of the lips that had split and curled back. As she drifted to sleep, hoping not to be visited by the girl again another sight procured itself to her subconscious. A kitchen was where she sat, at a table with a red check tablecloth. There was no plates but a large pitcher of a thin red liquid was in the centre. Balmly sunlight strobed through thin nets that hung across wide windows. Individual plant stalks hung upside down were attached to the yellowing walls. The majority of the stalks had long died and withered away, but one of them hung with less limpness than the rest. A large sprig of lavender. It’s purple flowers had never seemed to die. She knew this, but didn’t know why. Ornamental plates hung on brackets in a graduating slope down toward a large oven. A battered wooden door lead out into a garden that stretched for as far as she could see. At the very end of the lawn a copse of trees blocked the river. She couldn’t see the river, or hear the children playing in it, but she knew that it was there and could even recall a time where she woke up on a Sunday morning and heard children splashing and sploshing around. A pang of envy had spread across her. A large hallway with woodland creatures stuffed and mounted in different states of death lead into a myriad of different rooms. She could see the doors, but couldn’t remember what was behind them. Footsteps pounded the ceiling above her, travelling from right to left and then into another part of the house. Another set started to follow the first. The first started to run down the stairs that branched off from the hallway, with a panicky rhythm. The second followed the first down. Something was amiss, but she didn’t know what it was. A slight pricking started to irritate her. Her brain was trying to tell her something, but she was more interested in trying to listen to the shouting that had started at the stairs. “I don’t care Andre! There was no need to speak to me like that! I’m your wife for Christ’s sake!” A woman was shouting loudly. “Aye, in name don’t forget!” A gruff voice replied. He had a broad Scottish accent. A loud slap came from the top of the stairs. A louder slap came in reply and the woman appeared in the hallway, knocked sideways against the wall. She clutched her face with her hands. She remembered how that felt; her very flesh seemed to sting with such an intensity she thought it could easily burst into flame. The woman pushed her hair back and stared at the gruff voiced man. A fire burned deep within her eyes; a feistiness that wouldn’t be slapped away. She spoke in a slow, deliberate voice, not breaking eye contact. “What have I told you about doing that?” There was no reply. “What did I say?!” The woman yelled at the top of her voice. If she was in the kitchen the plates would have fallen off the brackets and crashed to the floor. “You have no right to touch me like that!” The woman turned and pounded her way down the hallway to the kitchen. A man appeared from behind her and her heart leapt and came crashing down again. A tall man with a wild beard and a large pair of glasses stepped down from the stairs and followed the woman along the hallway. “Where ye going?” “I’m doing what I said Andre, taking me and Gretchen somewhere we’ll both be safe.” She was shouting back at him but not looking; she was picking up a handbag that had been on the bench and frantically scrabbling around in a drawer. “You cannae do that!” “Just watch me you coward.” The man lunged across the room and grabbed the woman’s upper arm, pressing his fingers into her flesh. It flushed red under his touch. He pushed her against the checkered table clothed table. She folded backwards over it and he leant into her. “You’re not going anywhere. Your place is here, nowhere else.” His voice was low and practically a growl. “No! I’m not putting up with the way you treat me anymore.” Her shouts had become shrill and almost incomprehensible. She twisted and pushed against him, trying to free his grip of her. With superhuman ease he pulled her forward so she was standing again and then threw her to the side, sending her crashing into the corner, disappearing from view behind the table. A sickening grin came over his face and lightning flashed in his eyes. “You’ll get what you deserve bitch,” and he descended from view as well. She woke up sweating heavily with her hair sticking to her face. She pushed it out of her face and was surprised to see the white light was there today. The circle of light moved around the cave like it always did. She watched it in silence. It illuminated parts of the cave that she hadn’t seen before. A faded metal sign with words she couldn’t recognise glinted under heavy layers of dirt and dust. The circle made one more lap of the cave and then disappeared like it usually did, leaving her with the blue liquid and nothing else. Last night’s vision had been incredibly disturbing, because of the intensity and realism that the Devil was invoking with it (she could smell the perfume coming from the woman) and because her tempter was making her believe that she knew these places and these people. Even after the vision had ended and she had woken, the familiarity she had felt when she saw the bearded man was still there, making her heart throb and her stomach twist. Satan must be wearing her down, she concluded at around midday. She didn’t have any idea what midday was as her watch was broke. The nifty Swatch watch she had strapped to her wrist was smashed when she woke up in the cave, it’s hands stuck at seven and between two and three. The screen had a chunk of plastic missing from it. She couldn’t understand why God would want her to have a broken watch for all eternity, but some things were beyond her comprehension. The liquid had started to bubble over occasionally. It wasn’t a constant flow over, it took an overly exuberant glug to force it over the lip. It ran down the side of the recess and stopped, losing it’s momentum. It puddled there, shining slightly. She sat next to it, peering in, looking for any extra messages she may have missed but because this offshoot of liquid wasn’t in the recess it didn’t bubble much. In fact it didn’t do much. It sizzled slightly against the stones, but it didn’t bubble or glug or splosh. Her stomach had started to growl louder and louder each hour and desires for chips had begun to dominate her thinking. To her this was just another way of being tempted. She was well aware that God asked people to fast for him, this was what Lent was all about, putting themselves into penance so they can show how much they love Him. No matter how many times she was shown thick beef pies and gravy with chips lying around luxuriantly like whores in Babylon basking in beefy warmth, she refused to relent. His love would feed her enough to make it through until the auspicious day. She passed the time between sessions at the recess thinking of what life was like on Earth and how it would change come the Apocalypse of the theologian. By her reckoning, and she didn’t reckon well, times were changing on Earth. The liquid had told her of the End of Days and how things would be going down on Earth and she thanked God that she would be sitting at his side. He had told her that she was one of the more important parts of the Armageddon and was integral in the final battle against the Anti-Christ and the Beast. She didn’t know how, but when the time came, and if her faith remained strong she would battle with her final breath for His Word and life. Satan continued to send her trials in her sleep. That night, as she dozed uncomfortably on the floor, she was once again shown the life of Gretchen’s mother and father. She sat once again in the kitchen; this time it wasn’t the height of summer, it was many months afterward. Clouds hung expectantly in the sky, blotting out the faint Sun. The kitchen was still this time, there was no noise from upstairs and there was no shouting from the hall. All of the kitchen implements were still there, but there was no noise or life in the house. A key clicked in the front door at the end of the hallway. It swung open and the man with the beard stepped into the house. He shook his coat violently, sending droplets of water scattering over the walls and bannister. The two plastic bags he was carrying were set down on the smaller steps and he took off his coat. It hung heavily on a hook and he picked up the bags. He stomped into the kitchen and threw them down onto the table. Contents spilled out over the red cloth; a bottle of milk smashing and flooded over the side. Even when he was by himself he was still a formidable sight. He towered over anyone and his broadness offset the usual dimensions of the room, making things look like doll’s house furniture. He muttered under his breath in a broad Scottish accent, mumbling incoherently about how the stupid milk shouldn’t be put in stupid bottles that don’t even stand upright when they are pushed over. His face was bright red and his hair, which was a large quiff in the previous vision was now stuck to his forehead by the rain. He brushed it to one side with his palm; not really taking much interest in it. He mopped up the spilt milk with a cardigan that was on the back of one of the seats. He slung the soaked garment over the back of the same chair, not bothered who it belonged to or what they would say. He started putting away the things that he knew in the cupboards that he knew they belonged in. The things that he didn’t know would be left for his wife to put away while he read the paper and drank. Such was the existence of Matilda; lowly slave to Andre. There was a knock on the front door. Thankful for the opportunity to not have to put away the shopping Andre stomped toward it. The corridor seemed more compacted when he was in it; his shoulders almost brushed the walls. He opened the door with an effortless movement. Stood in front of him was a large policeman; almost as large as Andre but in different dimensions. The police officer was taller (as if that were possible) and slightly thinner. Not like a proverbial barge-pole, but more like a fridge. The man-fridge had a grave look on his face. “Mr. Bute?” “Aye?” Andre sounded defensive before he had even asked anything major. “Can I come in?” “What for?” “I’d rather come in before we talk further.” Andre gestured him in and stood back. The policeman came in and walked straight through to the kitchen. He sat down at the table and placed his hat in front of him. He fidgeted slightly in his seat; he was obviously uncomfortable doing this, whatever this was. Andre came through and stood against one of the wooden kitchen surfaces. He looked directly at the policeman, not taking his gaze from him. A number of seconds passed. Andre wasn’t about to start talking to the stranger in uniform. “Er...so...Mr. Bute. My name is Police Constable Coolidge. I have some bad news for you. Have you been watching the news recently?” No reply came. He stood silent against the pan cabinet. He hadn’t any idea what you would use a pan cabinet for, but he remained propped up against it. “So, is that a no then?” Coolidge continued almost unabashed. Andre’s silence irritated him, but what he was about to hear would be much worse than what Coolidge thought of him now. “Well, three days ago a body was found in the River Brote. An unidentified woman had, presumably drowned and her body had been caught on a low hanging branch that dipped into the water. A local teenager, Teddy Ruxpath had found her and reported the incident to us. Anywho, we’ve been working our gussets off all week to find out who this person was and what had happened to her, but until this morning our efforts had been fruitless. That was until the forensic results came back. It turns out that it was Mrs. Bute who was...found, I guess would be the right word?” Andre’s stoic facade cracked slightly; his eyebrows furrowed inward and his chin dropped slightly revealing a row of pearly teeth (his golden tooth glinted). “Not only that, but we have reason to suspect that her...passing wasn’t the result of malicious intent or mismanagement. With her body there was a polythene bag that was tied and fastened with those tight white fastenings that fruit comes in sometimes? In it there were a number of letters, three in fact, each addressed to someone else. There’s one here for you Mr. Bute, and there’s one for your daughter Gretchen, and one for a Nicholas de Lacey? Do you know who he is?” Andre nodded once, but didn’t elaborate on who he was. His face had regained it’s composure; fastened with no emotion showing. “Would you like to see them? I have them in my possession today.” Andre nodded again. Coolidge rummaged around in his large pockets and pulled out a grimy bag. You couldn’t see what was inside because there was dirt encrusted onto it. He pulled it open (the fastening had been taken off at the police station she presumed) and took out three envelopes. They had been torn open with skill and tact by the forensic scientist charged with figuring out what had happened. Coolidge lay them on the table in front of him; lined parallel with his hat. In elaborate handwriting there were the names of the three people Coolidge had mentioned; Andre Bute, Gretchen Bute (with a smaller cursive ‘My Beloved Daughter’ underneath) and Nicholas de Lacey. Coolidge looked around the room, glad that his job was over so he could leave. “So,” he said brightly, “now that you’ve got these I’ll be on my way. Streets to police and all that.” He got to his feet, pushing the chair back with his legs. “Are you going to be alright with these or...?” He left the sentence hanging in the air, not expecting Andre to beg him to stay but still doing his policemanly duty by offering. Truth be told Coolidge was a sorry excuse for a policeman and she was glad that the Rapture was coming because those left by God would need better people than him policing the streets of Heaven each night. Coolidge picked his hat up and was about to place it on his head when Andre muttered something along the lines “Woodchareademforma?” “What was that sorry?” He dreaded asking Andre to elaborate but he took an oath. He thought it was an oath anyway. Truth be told, and Coolidge always tried to tell the truth, he was drunk a lot of the time in police school. Andre gritted his teeth and spoke slowly and deliberately, not wanting to repeat it for a third time. “Would you read them for me?” “Why? Can’t you do it?” He looked at Andre, who just looked straight back at him. Andre didn’t want to say why he couldn’t read the letters aloud and it killed him having to rely on someone else to hear his wife’s dying words and wishes, but he couldn’t read and he never could. Even at school he coasted through repeating what other’s knew, disguising that he even had a problem. Back in the heady days of pre-internet schooling where you either understood something or didn’t and if you didn’t then there wasn’t time to go back and explain, no one really took interest in the pupils. As long as people were passing with grades then that was all that mattered. The realisation of what Andre was trying to telepathically pass to Coolidge hit him like a cold haddock to the face. “Oh. I see. Which would you like me to read first?” Coolidge tried to keep his voice light and breezy because it wouldn’t be nice to verbally kick someone who couldn’t read when they were down. It wasn’t the Christian thing to do. “Mine,” Andre grunted monosyllabically. “OK then.” Coolidge picked up the letter with ‘Andre’ scrawled on it. He carefully unfolded it (it was folded into three segments, each the same size as the one below or above). He cleared his throat theatrically. “Dear Andre. By the time you read this I will hopefully be dead and safe on my way to Heaven. This is the only thing that I have to look forward to now. I know that I’m probably wrong in assuming this, but you might be thinking about what would cause me to do myself in. I hope you do, and I hope you dwell on what has happened; how unhappy I was as I took my last breath and sunk myself into the freezing cold waters, how the water swirled around my shoulders just before I took my last thought. Well I’ll spell it out for you because you’re obviously not capable of partaking in independent thought. It’s because of you and the things that you do to me that have forced me to do this. All the times you hit me because I forgot to pick up the beef put the rocks in my pocket and all the times that you forced yourself upon me in the middle of the night-” Coolidge stopped. “Do you...er, want me to continue?” Andre shook his head and looked blankly at the table. He was staring at the letter addressed to Gretchen. “Read that one,” he grunted. “Are you sure? Even in front of-?” Andre nodded. Coolidge folded the letter back in on it’s fold lines and slipped it back into the envelope. He placed it back onto the table so it remained parallel with everything else. He picked up the Gretchen letter and opened it. He cleared his throat dramatically again, dreading what he was about to read. “Dearest Gretchen. Writing this letter has been incredibly difficult. I’ve been sat at the table in the kitchen for three hours while Daddy was out trying to find the right things to say but every time that I start it doesn’t come out right so I have to start again. There’s a massive pile of paper in the bin next to me. Unfortunately, by the time that you are old enough to walk and talk I won’t be here. My time on Earth is almost up now and God needs me back in Heaven. But don’t worry. I’m not going forever. Whenever you’re sad I’ll be looking over you. All you need to do is ask Daddy about me and you’ll be happy again. Every time that something falls over for no reason, or a breeze runs through the room on a sweltering hot day that’ll be me. I love you sweetheart, and you’re the one thing that I am so proud of. There is nothing that you could do to disappoint me or Daddy. See you soon. Mummy.” The paper was wavy; like it had come into contact with water and then dried. It was obvious to Coolidge that it wasn’t the river water that had dripped onto the letter. It was tears. His voice cracked as he finished reading and he had to force back stinging tears. This was the saddest thing that he’d read or seen. He folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. “Thank you,” Andre said. He was obviously not used to saying anything like this because it came out like a loud ‘Fankoo’ but Coolidge chalked it up to just finding out his wife was dead. Coolidge stood up and grabbed his hat. “I should get going now. My boss will have my guts for garters if I’m late again.” He managed a weak smile, hoping to lift Andre’s gaze from the letters. There was no response so Coolidge crept along the hall and out of the front door, shutting it quietly leaving Andre and her in the kitchen. She woke up slowly after this dream. The prickling of the stones seemed less intense today, either they were less bothersome or she didn’t care as much. She kept reminding herself that the dreams were horrible visions sent to test her devotion to His Mighty, but she felt immense pity for people living on Earth having to put up with savage domestic abusers and incompetent police officers. Her horror didn’t sway her; she was just as dedicated to her Mission. He would save all the ones righteous enough. Matilda would have been a good example of the righteous she thought. The blue liquid was starting to spill out more frequently, splashing over the lip of the recess like a tiny wave. It didn’t manage to go anywhere far, it dribbled away and soaked into the ground so she wasn’t bothered by it. She had other things to worry about; more important pressing matters. She had to figure out how to shield herself from the visions. That night she tried to tip stones and soil over the head so she resembled a vertical emu. It didn’t work. She was shown another vision. Andre was in this one too, but he was older. Much older. His beard was starting to show slivers of grey in it and his skin was starting to crinkle, in the way that men aren’t bothered about but women are. His eyes, which had once harboured a fiery passion now lacked any spark at all. They were deadened by the events which had preceded this night’s vision. He sat at the same kitchen table. Only now the table cloth was thread-bare and torn, with multi-coloured stains spattered randomly. A sitting chair was placed at the opposite side of the table to Andre. It was also splattered with stains. He sighed loudly to himself, aware that no-one was around to ask what was wrong, and to stroke his ego. The kitchen had fell into disrepair compared to the pristine vision that was shown earlier. She wasn’t sure what had happened after Matilda had killed herself, but these were the aftereffects. A man, broken by his actions and not knowing how to go on. He leaned forward, rummaged around in the back pocket for something and pulled out a tattered envelope. It was the same envelope that Matilda had written her suicide notes in. One of the corners had torn away showing a sharp corner of letter poking through. He threw it down on the table and leaned back into his chair. It creaked loudly, as if the wood was about to break in two under his pressure. Andre didn’t move to pick up the letter to read it. Instead he just looked at it. He knew what it said, she couldn’t have made it any clearer if she had tried. She blamed him for her killing herself. Which was madness really, but it took a certain level of madness to fill your pockets full of stones and wade out into a river. The funeral had taken place a week after the body had been discovered. The whole town seemed to mourn her passing. They had lined the leafy streets that the Hearse was going to travel down with flowers and handwritten messages. ‘An amazing woman’ the butcher she had went to once had called her on the local news when they reported what had happened. Everybody seemed to have an opinion on what had taken place, and they all usually ended with Andre being the villain who raped her mentally and physically until the only thing that she could do herself and competently was throw herself into water. The letterbox creaked open and Andre’s back froze. “Oi!! Mentalist! What you doing in there?! Killing someone else?! To think, a monster like you living in our town! You sicken all of us, you should be dead, not her!” The letterbox slammed shut and footsteps walked away. The abuse Andre suffered had diminished since the funeral, but it was still a daily occurence to have someone shout something through the letterbox, or have a package filled with dog excrement sent to him. Andre knew he was being punished, but when people shouted at him in the streets, or spat at his feet he laughed inside. He’d had worse than this in his lifetime. That wasn’t the punishment that Matilda had inflicted on him. “Well I dunno Betsy. I know he’s a horrid person and he’s done horrible things, but sometimes you have to set things aside in certain circumstances.” Two voices were coming from the garden. It was the next door neighbour, Lola Baccara (Andre presumed this wasn’t her real name). Before Matilda killed herself, Lola and Brian would always be popping their heads around the door, seeing if everything was alright, or if they needed some sugar. They never did, but the courtesy to ask was worth more than the sugar they had offered. He had never really liked Lola. Her fake breasts and botoxed skin that had sunk away had always offended his eyes and made her look disrespectful to men. Her mouth was almost as filthy as her garden, which was full of weeds and mismatching flowers. Unfortunately (not for Andre but this was how everyone started the sentences about Brian) Brian had suffered a stroke not long after he met Lola and they moved to Meadow Drives soon after they married, so he had been a burden on Lola and although she would never admit it, everyone knew. She would bluster and talk about how helpful she felt when was with Brian, and that he was her ideal man, but Lola was a chorus girl in the forties. She had danced for Winston Churchill on May seventh, 1945 and had always enjoyed living the high life away from constraints. “What circumstances do you mean?” This other voice was a stranger to Andre. He didn’t take pride in knowing all of Lola’s friends or any of the members of the Meadow Vale Women’s Institute with whom she fraternised occasionally. “Well the girl I mean. Gretchen. She deserves a better start than this. Imagine, your mama chucking herself into a river when you were just a babba, and it all being because your daddy raped her until she couldn’t live anymore. It’s not really a very stabile upbringing.” “Don’t be so silly Lola. She doesn’t know anything about that.” “How do you know? Children are very receptive about things like this. They’re always picking things up from the way adults say things. And she can’t ignore some of the things that people shout through that letterbox all day and night. Even I can hear it through the walls and I can’t ignore that language. I mean, I know I’ve done things in my time, admittedly, some of them not respectable, and I’ve had some even less respectable things done to me, but I wouldn’t ever shout things through someone’s letterbox without knowing the whole story. It’s just unnecessary isn’t it? I mean, it brings the area down doesn’t it.” The front door opened and slammed shut. A pair of footsteps skipped into the kitchen. It was a small girl, hair in pigtails and a navy school dress on. She clutched a satchel under one arm (the strap had snapped earlier in the day). “Daddy! Daddy! Guess what!” She was smiling and revealing a missing tooth (it had been knocked out when she fell down the stairs when she was late for school. Social Services had come round that afternoon). “What’s that darling?” He gritted his teeth and forced a smile across his face. “Today right, well me and Annabelle right, you know Annabelle don’t you? She’s the blonde one who likes to bite things, well me and her were playing and you’ll never guess what Daddy. She pumped.” She giggled loudly and put her leather satchel onto the table. It landed onto a purple splat. “She went to pick up the ball for the boys and she parpered. It didn’t smell or anything though.” “Err, that’s horrible Gretchen. Was she embarrassed?” “Yeah Daddy. Of course she was. It was in front of Ryan.” Completely nonplussed on the relevance of Ryan Andre continued regardless. “Did you get much homework?” “Yeah! Stupid Miss Princess wants us to read the first six chapters of ‘Jazzy in the Jungle’ for tomorrow.” “Well you had better get started on it hadn’t you. Go on, up to your room.” Gretchen’s smile faltered slightly, but didn’t disappear. She slid her satchel off the table, taking some of the dried on stain with her and sauntered up to her room. Andre had always thought Matilda to be an unworthy foe, and the day which was meant to be happiest had been long and tedious. He should never have married Matilda; his mother had been quite explicit in the reasons why, but he wouldn’t be told to do anything by a woman. Even if it was his mother, she was still a woman, and as such, didn’t know much about matters of life, unless it was to do with pies. But her final act of defiance had been a master stroke of genius. Something that he didn’t even envisage happening. She had totally blindsided him by killing herself. If the truth by told Andre wasn’t bothered about Matilda dying. He was glad, because now he didn’t have to worry about her always answering him back and doing stupid things that he found annoying. He wouldn’t have done it himself, and he didn’t want to force her to do it, but he wasn’t exactly devastated that she had done it. He hadn’t gone to the funeral; Matilda’s mother had taken Gretchen, but he hadn’t been asked to go, and didn’t really feel welcome to attend. What with everyone thinking that he had driven her to do it. He wasn’t entirely convinced that he was the major factor to her doing herself in. Matilda had always been an attention seeker; even at school from what he could gather. She was always going out of her way to talk to people and ask how they were so they could respond in kind and make her feel wanted and appreciated. Andre had never wanted anything like that; he wasn’t there to make friends. He was there to learn and to eventually become a doctor or a dentist. He had always taken her to be quite a flimsy person; bending to the will of her mother and not standing up for herself to people who she should have, like her mother. The fact that she had done herself in still amazed him. It was a move that would have moved her Queen across the board into a strategically sound place on a chessboard; just in reach of the King but not using her to her full potential. Most novice chess players use the Queen like a nuclear missile, taking out whatever they can with her, depleting pawns and bishops until she is taken by mistake. But the more learned know that the Queen can be used in a scarier way; to trap the King. If she is set up right, the Queen can act like a barrier across the board so the King can’t move across it without putting himself into Checkmate, effectively ending the match. If she is positioned correctly then less versatile troops, like the bishops or rooks can fashion a cage around the King until he has no more space to move into. This is what Matilda had done. She had enacted her own endgame strategy to trap Andre into a Checkmate situation. When she walked into that river and took her final breaths she knew that once she was gone it would be Andre who had to look after Gretchen because his pride stopped him from taking help or admitting he was wrong. And if he had to look after her every day from now until his death then she was happy because she was well aware of what Gretchen meant to him. Andre didn’t really like Gretchen. When Matilda was pregnant and the time for routine scans came around there had been some complications in the womb and Gretchen was diagnosed with chromosome trisomy 21. In laymen terms, and the ones that people in the street used when they saw her were “What’s it like having a baby with Down Syndrome?” with the occasional “What’s wrong with your baby’s face?!” He thought Gretchen was an embarrassment and should have been aborted at pre-birth, but Matilda wouldn’t hear of it. She had been raised to believe that all children are children even if they hadn’t been born yet. She would harp on about ‘The Silent Scream’, which was a film she had seen in her childhood about abortion and the effects it has on the unborn child. Andre had seen ‘Threads’ as a child, and had quite liked it. Now he was lumbered with a daughter who he didn’t want anything to do with, and not being able to do anything about it. He wouldn’t take any help from Matilda’s mother. They detested each other; it was apparent enough. She refused to even look him in the face. ‘The Blight On Humanity’ she would call him when Gretchen wasn’t around (she didn’t like to make disparaging comments in front of her in case it rubbed off. She didn’t want to ruin Gretchen’s life moreso than the damage Andre had inflicted already). The Ginger Monstrosity (as Andre called Matilda’s mother) was never forward enough to say things to his face, maybe out of fear, or maybe out of respect for her daughter’s choices in life. After all Matilda did choose to be with Andre. It wasn’t as if he had chained her indoors every day (although some people would like to think he did). She would snipe and complain to whichever ear would be open enough to listen to her, and some that weren’t. There was one solution left open to Andre, and as dramatic and severe as it was, there wasn’t anything else available to him. --- She awoke to a bright light shining into the cave. The spotlight had settled on her face, breaking through her eyelids. She lifted her hand just above her eyes to see her surroundings. A silhouette blocked some of the hole in the ceiling. “He-hello? God?” The light disappeared and the silhouette vanished from view. She blinked and rubbed her eyes with her fists causing spots to appear. She nipped her arm with long yellowing fingernails. She wasn’t sure whether she was still asleep or if she had really seen God. Had the time come for her ascension? She stood up, dusted her hands down her dress and straightened it out. “HELLO! ARE YOU THERE GOD? I’M READY FOR YOU! COME BACK!” There was no reply. She shouted again, louder this time. There was no reply again. “YOUR HOLINESS! I’M READY! COME AND GET ME!” A light appeared again. The spotlight shone around the cave before finding her and illuminating her. “DON’T WORRY! WE’LL HAVE YOU OUT OF THERE IN NO TIME!” A girl shouted back at her. She had never imagined that God was a little girl. Maybe that was why her Tempter had shown her a girl melting. A more direct insult than his veiled attempts at showing her how bad things happen to people. “OH GOD! I’M SO PLEASED THAT IT’S TIME. THIS LIQUID HAS BEEN GETTING MORE BUBBLIER!” “She thinks I’m God,” the girl whispered from outside the cave. “I’M NOT GOD. MY NAME IS LESLIE!” Why was God masquerading as a little girl called Leslie? Was this another dream? What was so scary about a girl called Leslie? “CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT YOUR NAME IS?” She thought for a second. “I CAN’T. I DON’T KNOW WHAT MY NAME IS.” “THAT’S FINE, DON’T WORRY. CAN YOU TELL ME WHETHER YOU’RE HURT?” “THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! WHAT’S GOING ON?” Something started cracking gravel near where the girl was. Doors slammed and she knew it was a car or something heavier, but definately something with tyres. “There’s a girl down there. She doesn’t know her name. Can you help her?” “Of course we can. It’s what we do.” Another voice echoed around the cave. This time it was a man. A deep sweaty voice that would have unruly facial hair she thought. Another silhouette appeared at the hole. “Alright sweetheart. I hear you don’t know your name, well mine is Dennis. Me and my friends are here to get you out, alright? It won’t be long until you’re out of here and having some nice hot chocolate with your ma. That sound good to you? It does to me. Sitting in front of a nice big fire sipping hot chocolate and eating biscuits. Yum.” While he was talking there was load commotion going on around him. Metallic clunks and clicks were starting to distract her from his voice. “Can you tell me what you’re doing down here?” he continued. She shook her head. She hadn’t realised it until now but she had started to cry. She wiped the tears away with a dirty hand. She didn’t care if she was smudged. Her brain had turned off, like it had had enough and packed it’s case and left, slamming a door behind it. “Can you hear me sweetheart?” She nodded. “Good stuff. Well I’m just going to come down and get-” --- She woke up wrapped in a soft blanket, harsh medical light shining onto her skin. She couldn’t open her eyes fully. “Don’t get up,” came a voice before she had even thought about getting up. A hand rested on her shoulder. A clean smell started to smother her slightly. It was Dennis still. “Where am I?” “You’re in hospital sweetheart. We thought it was best to bring you here, what with you fainting and that. But don’t worry, there ain’t nothing wrong with you. Healthy as a whistle you might say. Quite shocking too, taking account what was down there.” “Oh right. Why am I here?” “That’s actually why I’m here. I need to know what you were doing down there. Did you know how dangerous what was down there was?” Her brain hadn’t come back from the trial separation so she turned over so she was facing away from the voice; hoping he would go away. “Alright. I’ll leave you to heal. But I’ll be back, we need some answers.” Footsteps walked away from her bed and a door swung open and slapped shut with a clack. --- Birds tweeted and darted from tree to tree; chasing prospective mates between branches and twigs. Springtime was in full swing now. Flowers were starting to shoot up from the ground; only small ones, but they would soon be colourful and smell fantastic. Dewy grass stabbed between her toes as she walked. She was holding hands with someone. His hand was gnarled and broken; rough skin rubbed against hers. It gripped hers tightly, not letting go of her. She wasn’t wearing any shoes but that didn’t bother her. It was a nice feeling on her toes; the soppy wet feeling was invigorating. “Come on. Don’t dawdle.” A sharp tug almost wrenched her arm out of it’s socket. She ran a little to catch up. Recently he had always been in a bad mood and she didn’t know why. She had always been a good girl for him; doing what she had been told when she was asked and never stepping out of line. Ever since her Mummy had gone he had been sad. He seemed happier today though. He had suggested that they go for a walk because the weather had finally come out nice. So they had locked up the backdoor and stepped down the garden, through the large white gate and into the fields. It felt like they had walked for hours and hours already, the Sun had baked her skin so she felt like if someone had wanted to eat her then they would be in for a good meal. Up hill and down dale she had walked with her Dad by her side. Pulling her along when she strayed. Eventually they stopped on the top of a hill. Behind them she could see the village. It seemed smaller from up here. The market square could just be seen; with the Bea Arthur statue standing proud. “Do you like it here Gretchen?” Her Dad was sitting on the grass, legs stretched out feet crossed, leaning against a raised plinth made of stone. He was looking around, taking in the sights. No one had passed them for hours, since the lovely woman walking a dog who sniffed her Dad with amorous intent. She had found it funny, and so had the lady walking it, but he hadn’t. He had flinched to strike the dog but had restrained himself. The woman had stalked off muttering ‘Well I never, in this day and age’ and soon disappeared around a tree. She sat down next to him and cuddled into his side. He had a knack of making her feel completely surrounded and safe from anything that wanted to hurt her. His massive arms would fight off anybody who would want to take her away from him. He reached over her and put his arm down her side so she sat in his armpit practically. “Did you know that me and Mummy came here? When we were courting. It’s exactly the same too. That power plant over there wasn’t as big as before though. It was just a tiny routing station to begin with.” He raised a gnarled finger to point on the horizon to two chimneys pumping out grey steam. “Gretchen? How would you like to see Mum again?” “It depends. Where is she?” “Oh, she’s in a better place. A much better place than this. A place where there isn’t any hate or bullying at all. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?” She nodded. She wouldn’t say how much it upset her that Mummy wasn’t around to wake her on a morning or tuck her in on a night but she didn’t want to make Daddy sad and he would be if she reminded him that the person who he loved had gone away from him. And she didn’t want that. He wrapped his hand around her waist and lifted her up in an uncertain lift. She wobbled to keep herself balanced. She liked to sit on her dad’s shoulders and see further than she could usually. He brought his other hand up and put it on the other side of her waist and lifted her high in the air. She laughed and closed her eyes. He threw her high into the air. When his hands left her side fear started to creep in, but the sheer exhilaration fought it back. All the air left her lungs and she breathed in a huge breath of fresh air. Of air that was closer to the stratosphere. It felt colder than normal air, and she liked that. Gravity started to take hold of her body and her stomach moved up, travelling into her throat slightly. Soon he would catch her and throw her up again. She threw her arms out into nothing, there were ledges for her to grasp hold of. She opened her eyes. She wasn’t in the field anymore. Instead the sky fell away from her as she travelled into darkness. The circle of sky got smaller and smaller until it was just a light blue circle. She finally hit something hard and blinked, trying to comprehend what was happening. Black started to travel across the circle of sky making it into a thick crescent, becoming thinner and thinner with each scrape of stone on stone. She opened her mouth and a curdling scream flew out and bounced off the walls. The crescent could barely be seen now; only a thin sliver of light broke through. The next second there was nothing. She raised her hands to the back of her head as it had started to throb. Something wet leaked onto her fingers. “DADDY!!” --- |
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