THE BOATHOUSE WORDS Part 2 & Last
By Richard Banks
There
is no logical, scientific explanation for what happened that night. It doesn’t
help that Sara won’t talk about it and that Jack has no memory of what he did.
But Danny does remember, and so do I. What we saw, we saw and what we saw
happened. What follows now also happened. You can believe it or not, more fool
you if you don’t.
Sara dumps Jack and the moron hits the
bottle even worse than before. He’s even drinking on the building site where he
works. They’re going to fire him but he saves them the trouble by jumping off
the sixteenth floor. Three months later Sara goes abroad to a finishing school
in Switzerland
“Who will want you now?” screams Mrs
Eden, too near an open window not to be heard. Her plans to find a suitable
husband for her daughter from among the local elite are at an end, but she’s
wrong, a new family moves into the area and takes up residence in the Priory,
the oldest and biggest house in a gated community outside of town. They are ‘old
money’ with political and social connections that reach far beyond Fairmeadow.
Within a year Sara marries the son of the house and disappears from sight
behind the grey stone walls of her in-law’s house. Her new family have let it
be known that they are private people, at home only to friends and relatives;
they are seldom seen in public.
Little Michael is now five years old, a
solitary child who can sometimes be seen at the window of his bedroom staring
sullenly – some say with malevolence – at all those who venture by. They say if
looks could kill he would, and maybe he has; birds fall lifeless from the sky
and in the gardens of nearby houses the bodies of small creatures are often
found. A guard dog dies on Priory Hill and on the road just past the house a
pony stumbles and breaks a leg. The rider summons help on her mobile and
another rider sets off from the farmhouse but gets no further than the first
gated house before his mount drops lifeless to the ground. The news spreads
like wildfire and makes the front page of the Herald. “What next?” people ask.
What next is me?
I’m out walking. On a warm August
afternoon, I should be on my way to the shops in Halesbridge, but I’ve missed
the bus and any thoughts I had of waiting for the next one have given way to
the need to walk. Where I’m going I don’t know. Why? is another question I
should be asking but I’m not, my brain doesn’t want to work that hard, in fact, it doesn’t want to work at all. I’m no more in control of myself than a twig
floating down the centre of a stream.
At last, I’m stopped, on the same white
concrete road pictured only days before in the Herald. My head tilts upwards
towards the house, sunshine in my eyes. I blink, blink again and through half
shut eyes find myself staring at Michael staring down at me from a second floor
window. He speaks the words, the boathouse words, the strange rushing words
that swirl around me until my head and body is shaking with the force of them.
A car’s coming towards me, the driver
sounds his horn and then twice more as I stand witless in the middle of the
road. He shouts at me, revs up his engine as though he means to run me down.
Shock waves crash through my brain and collide with the words which falter and
for a moment lose their grip. I’m back inside my own head. My thoughts are
scrambled, like a bad dream, but something tells me I must run, that only in
distance will I be safe. I head off helter-skelter, like a crazy person, blind
to every danger save the one I’m running from.
The end of the concrete road is first
base, after that there’s a tarmac road which after fifty yards bends sharp left
but there’s only one direction I’m going and that’s straight ahead. There’s a
footpath and I’m down it, a hedge either side and me in the middle. There’s a
man coming towards me, there’s scarcely room to pass, we scrape shoulders but I’m
still going, running faster than I have ever run before. The words are close
behind almost upon me but as the path slopes downwards I run even faster and
the words fall back. If I don’t slow I might, just might be free of them. In
front of me, at the end of the path, is a country road. A car roars by right to
left. I hear another one coming. I should be stopping but I can’t so I plunge
across in front of a van that swerves past me horn blaring.
Ahead
is another path, a track between two fields.
At the end are houses, red roofed new builds not yet sold. I’m back in town running down the centre of
deserted roads and then along those with lived in houses that gradually fill up
with people and traffic. I’m nearly at the High Street. A car narrowly misses
me and another slams on its brakes, screeching to a halt in front of me. I can’t
stop and go sprawling across the bonnet. I sink down onto the tarmac, blood
streaming from my face and arms. A man asks if I’m alright, wants to call an
ambulance, but I tell him no, that I’m nearly home. I get back on the pavement,
and minutes later I’m in the flat I share with Danny.
*****
What happened after that I’m keeping to
myself, but you won’t be surprised to know that we’re a long, long way from
Fairmeadow. No one knows where we are and if we want to stay alive that’s the
way it’s got to be. There’s dark days ahead and not just for us, but what can
we do? Who’s gonna take any notice of us? Only when he gets stronger when the
evil spreads and people see and hear it for themselves, will they know the
horror of what is to come. Too late, by then it'll be too late.
Danny says I should write the whole
thing down and put it in a bank vault only to be opened when we’re dead and
buried. So, if you’re reading this, remember us in your prayers. Say one for
yourself, you will need it. The abomination of desolation has just begun.
Document DC
127/18 lodged
by Delia Carr at the National
Bank, Kaloorlie
Boulder,
Western Australia on 28/9/2018
That's it shant sleep tonight, good story Richard. Love Western Australia didn't go near any boathouses though.
ReplyDeleteDidn't disapppoint. Good story. Like the phrase 'the abomination of desolation.'
ReplyDelete