I’m still beavering away at the editing, but that’s not what I want to tell you about today. I heard about Empty Nest Syndrome, but it’s just hit me for the first time, when a pair of abandoned angel wings reduced me to a sobbing wreck. My children have come and gone over the years, dipping their toes in the property market etc, but now it feels so final. It’s not too bad during the day, when I’m working and have no time to think of anything other than mythical characters, but its when night come creeping that the ache sets in. I hate closing the bedrooms doors on rooms now devoid of scent and sound. If a floorboard creaks I know it’s just the house settling and not the tread of a loved ones foot. Even the sign on my office door, warning that I am working, is now redundant. I’m delighted that my children are happy, of course I am, but I just wasn’t prepared for the sense of loss.
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There was nothing beautiful about the house, but it obsessed her from the moment she saw it. Its fascination had nothing to do with anything strange or otherworldly; it was just that she had never had anything of her own before; not a house, a room, not even a bed. Everything had been leant to her; as though the giver warned “this will be yours for a while or for as long as I say.” Well, all that was at an end and she was now the proud owner of Bracken House, a Gothic monstrosity set in a remote location and lacking any of the charm that such buildings can sometimes have. The front of the house was a mismatch of tower rooms and angles, as though the builder, uncaring of where he placed each brick, let the house rise from the foundations of its own accord. This gave it a rather simple, moronic look and were it to vie for place among other buildings of its era, it would, in all honesty, be thought of as the court jester, it’s misshapen limbs a joke among the majesty of finer houses. Still, its new owner saw none of this and after the bare cells and cold stones of the convent; she saw only her new home and the start of a new life.
It had come as quiet a shock to the Mother Superior and her other sisters when she told them she was leaving. The look of outrage and disbelief on each face still sent her in to giggles of delight and she relished the upset she had caused by abandoning what was a depleting calling.
“But, you’re sixty eight years old,” Mother Superior gasped.
“It’s never too late or so they tell me,” Sister Anne, as she was then known, replied.
“Where will you go; what will you do?” The Mother asked.
“As you know, my mother recently died and it seems she has left me her whole estate, “Sister Anne said. “I intend to use the money before it is too late.”
“We are always short of funds, Could you not stay here? It had been your home for over fifty two years after all, and it seems only fair that the other sisters should share in your wealth.”
“I have no intention of sharing one penny with any of you,” Sister Anne replied, before getting to her feet.
The Mother Superior’s face was ashen in the fading light, her lips drawn in to a thin line of anger and Janet; she had reclaimed her old name, wonder if it were not for the large, mahogany desk that divided them, would the woman have struck her? How glad she was to leave the office that day and know that she would never return. The image of that room was imprinted on her retinas and the smell of trapped heat and old books seemed to have lodged itself in her nose. The idea that she would share her new found wealth with others! But then, Janet had never been one to share anything. Truth be known, she would not be missed by those she lived and worked beside and she knew that there was those who had breathe a sigh of relief when she walked out through the gates of the convent. There was nothing wrong with her; she decided many years ago, it was other people who had the problem. She had no time for the fake friendships they offered and the harlots who were placed in her care were a burden to be endured. She was a strong woman with even stronger principles and if they thought of her as cruel in her treatment of others, that just showed their weakness in both morals and spirit. It was time to go anyway, as the years changed and the unmarried mother was no longer an outcast and therefore of no value to her order. The other sister had become fat and lazy from decades of inactivity, while she stayed lean and unbending in all, especially her beliefs.
The rather stupid young man in the estate agents office had tried to dissuade her when she picked out the house from a stack of leaflets. It was very remote; he said and had the audacity to add, for a lady of her age and should she need help it was miles away from a hospital.
“I have never known a day’s sickness in my life,” she snatched the leaflet from his hand. “And I don’t intend to start now, even at my great age,” she added.
He had the grace to blush then and agreed to take her to view the house. Even as they drove, he pointed out, what he believed were more suitable properties, but she had ignored him, refusing to turn her head to look.
She loved the house on sight.
“Your photograph does not do it justice,” she told him.
“Really?” He stared from the leaflet to the house and scratched his head in wonder as she drank in the mottled brickwork, trailing ivy and peeling wood. “It has quite a reputation round here.”
“In what way?” She thought this just another ploy to put her off buying.
He shuffled from foot to foot and kept his eyes on the ground.
“Come along, young man. I have no time for dawdlers.”
“They say it’s haunted,” he mumbled. “That’s why no one wants to buy it.”
“How ridiculous,” Janet huffed. “Haunted indeed!”
One of the former sister’s downfalls was, like all salesmen familiar with a particular product, she knew all its faults and so it was when it came to spirits and religion. She feared nothing and no one and if that young upstart thought he could frighten her away with his tales of hauntings, he had quite another thing coming.
“I would like to see the interior now,” she said, her lips drawn in to their usual line of disapproval, her eyes thin slits in her skeletal face.
There was no arguing with someone like his present client and the young man took a large, rust-stained key from the glove compartment of his car and led her towards the house. Whatever Janet’s beliefs, the house did have a bad reputation. It was well known that it was haunted. In fact, it was the glue that held most ghost stories together. It was included in most tales of terror and one told by the old women of the surrounding area, round winter fires they whispered its name and crossed themselves with fear, to add substance and terror to the telling.
Janet felt a delicious thrill when he opened the creaking front door. The hallway smelt mouldy and clouds of dust rose from the threadbare carpets and muffled their footsteps as they descended further in to the house. She scanned each of the downstairs rooms, making a shrewd assessment of what it would cost to repair and what she might knock off the asking price.
The rustling ivy outside the windows sent darting shadows across the bare walls and their grotesque shapes made her shiver. It was all that young man’s fault; she glared at him for putting such thoughts in to her mind. The noises in the wainscoting were nothing more sinister that the scuttling of mice and the creaking floorboards overhead signalled that other wildlife had made there home within the house. She was right; there was a life of sorts within the house, but it was not one that could be easily explained away.
Another restless night spent listening to the Worry Witches. You all know these terrible creatures, who creep up beside your bed, when you are desperately trying to sleep, and whisper in your ear about all the things that could go wrong or might go wrong. They’re at their most powerful when you’re worried about something or someone. Yet, on Saturday night, when I’ve had a glass of wine or seven, I am deaf to their murmurings! So the question is, is wine a force against evil or does it just still the voices in ones head?
It’s been a while since I’ve posted a story, but there never seems to be enough hours in the day to fit everything in. I’m 99,144 words in to my new novel for young adults and trapped in a world of fantasy and folklore. Sometimes it’s difficult to remember where fantasy ends and reality begins. The fact is that fantasy has become more preferable as I create worlds filled with color, where we know who the bad guys are and we can root for the goodies. If only things were more clear cut in our mortal world.
The Shed
Jim McCormack built a shed. So what, you’re thinking? Men build sheds all the time and there is nothing in that first sentence that draws the reader and make them hungry for more, but wait. This is his story, told to me by his daughter and I can vouch for the tale as I have seen the structure first hand.
Jim has been diagnosed with a brain tumour. It has come at a time when he should be winding down and enjoying what life has to offer. The fates are not always kind and he had to retire from a career he loved and to his horror, he is now in the company of his wife twenty-four hours a day. She is not a bad woman, but the kindest thing I can find to say about her is that her tongue was forged from the finest tempered steel. 
Death requires a lot of thought, he needed to be alone, to get things in order and so the idea of a shed was born. He built it himself, not an easy job for a man unused to working with his hands, but it came together bit by bit. The roof is made of galvanised steel, which makes the slightest shower of rain sound like thunder. It doesn’t matter though as sounds, smells and colours have become very important and have taken on a new meaning. The walls are made from pieces of wood he found while scavenging or was given by family and friends. Nothing matches, but it is his den, his sanctuary. He now spends most of his day in there and admits only the privileged few.
His five-year-old granddaughter, Suzie, is his best friend. Most days, after the rigors of school and homework are through; they sit in the shed and build furniture for her doll’s house. Tiny beds, tables and chairs are whittled by his care-worn hands as he listens to her childish gossip. He is her granddad, her hero and he in turn finds comfort in her dreams and imagination. I watch them sometimes, these two gentle souls, one just beginning a life, the other contemplating the end and I wish that time could stand still.
Of course the most important thing about the shed is to see Jim’s pride in it. He glows when he speaks of finding some old oil heater or table that fits inside its rackety interior. He needs to keep adding to it as if it were alive, feeding it the way he did his children. It had become an extension of himself and says the things he could never find words for. It keeps out the unwelcome and lets in with open arms the people he loves. As my friend says.
“It has made me realise how much I mean to my father. I’m a bit like the shed, I’ll never be perfect, but when he talks about me his face has the same glow it has when he talks about the shed.”
It’s a beginning. I refuse to think of it as an end. Don’t you?
Copyrighr© Gemma Mawdsley2013
I know I’m very late in getting round to this, but the wishes are the same no matter how late. I hope that 2013 is good to all my friends and if I could write with my fingers crossed then I would. I have always been one who thinks that things will get better, but sometimes it’s hard to believe they will. I’m not complaining for myself, but it pains me to see how sick and downcast my country, Ireland has become. I’ve always been a bit of a Christmasholic, someone who plans for it the whole year. I love the glamour and glitz, but this year, for the first time ever, it was a complete let down. The season was somehow muted, as though no one had the heart to truly take part. I had the same amount of family and friends to Christmas dinner, 14 of them, so it was very busy. Still, everyone seemed lethargic, not only in my home, but everywhere. I’ve spoken to a number of people since and they all had the same opinion. It feels as though people have lost hope and when that happens there’s no way back. I’ve stopped reading the newspapers, as everyday the sad panorama of human suffering is played out in black in white. A couple in their 60s frozen to death in Dublin and more and more people are losing their homes. Up to 25 homes a week are having their gas cut and this is just as the really hard weather hits. Some people are actually asking the electricity companies to cut their supply as the stress of owning big bills is killing them. This is modern day Ireland, living by candlelight while ice forms on the inside of the window glass. When I was researching my first novel, The Paupers‘ Graveyard, I thought things like the famine were history. This is not so as people can no longer afford to feed their families and the charity organisations are overwork and under financed to cope with the thousands asking for help. The statistics I have given you may seem small, but you must realise how tiny our country is compared to many. There are no jobs to be had. My daughter sent out 512 applications for jobs and received two replies, both rejections, so I know what I’m talking about. All we can do is pray for a miracle and that’s what I wish for you all as the months tumble one in to the other. Good health and happiness, I suppose if we have these two basic things then we can achieve anything. Like Pandora’s Box I leave you with the thing I wish you the most, Hope. Never stop believing.
Part Two
Mr Brown stood with hands on hips looking down at the boy. Something told him that this child was desperate for the work.
“Look, son, I have customers to serve. Why don’t you have a practise until I’m finished and we’ll talk then?”
“Oh, thank you,” Johnny hauled the bike upright.
He rode up and down the street for over an hour; falling now and then and skinning his knees through his threadbare trousers, but he never gave up. When Mr Brown came out, he was able to cycle up to him and dismount without falling over. He stood with flushed cheeks, triumphant at what he’d achieved.
“I knew you could do it, son,” Mr Brown ruffled his hair. “ You’ve got yourself a job. Its five and a half days a week and the pay is five shillings. I’ll expect you to work the extra day when we’re busy with the Christmas rush and for this you’ll get an extra two shillings. Are we agreed?” He held out his hand. 
Johnny shook, his fingers disappearing in to the man’s huge hand.
“Thank you, sir. I can start in the morning,” he said.
“Good boy, be in at eight sharp.”
It took him quite a while to persuade his mother to let him take the job, but they both knew they needed the money. He told her about the five shillings, but not about the two extra he could earn. She assumed the wages were for a six and a half day week and Johnny was happy to let her think that. His first two shillings were placed as a deposit on the doll in Mrs O Rourke’s window and he swore her to secrecy. It was ten weeks to Christmas and he knew he’d have enough for the doll, with seven shilling left over. With this he intended to buy a coat for his Mother; second hand, but warmer than the one she now wore and a small present for his baby brother. His mind was awash with plans as his little legs pumped up and down like mad, as he cycled from house to house. The customers all liked the thin little boy with the sparkling eyes and they lost no time in telling his employer this. Mr Brown knew from the start he’d chosen well in Johnny and gave him the leftover cakes and bread to take home each night. Slowly the sadness faded in his mother’s eyes and his sister and brother were no longer hungry.
It was Christmas Eve and the shop was busier than ever. Snow and slush lined the side of the roads and made the going tough. Johnny wore two pairs of old socks over his hands in a vain attempt to keep out the cold, but his fingers were frozen. Sometimes, when he dismounted from the bike, his hand retained the bars shape and he had to blow on them to breathe life back into them. At times his hands were so cold, he couldn’t pull the brakes and he took many a tumble. It was now five-o-clock and he was finished for the day. His mother and baby brother’s presents were hidden in the flat, but he still had to collect Cathy’s doll. Mrs O Rourke’s shop didn’t close until half past five so there was plenty of time. He smiled, as he wheeled the bike in to the shop.
“Sorry, son,” Mr Brown said. “Another order has come in. It’s an important customer and I can’t afford to let them down.”
He named an area over two miles away and Johnny’s heart sank. Mr Brown was a good employer and he couldn’t refuse to go, but he’d never be in time to collect the doll now. He peddled like the wind; the pennies he’d received from grateful customers slapping against his legs. It was six-o-clock when he finally reached O Rourke’s shop and the lights were all out and the door shut tight. He stood on the pavement wanting to cry, but that would not be a manly thing to do. He felt his heart might break until the bell inside the shop tinkled as the door opened.
“Ah, there you are, Johnny.” Mrs O Rourke smiled. “I waited for you; I knew you’d be along.”
He handed her the last payment of one shilling and sixpence and took the brightly-wrapped parcel.
“You’re a good boy, Johnny,” Mrs O Rourke kissed his forehead. “Your mother should be proud of you.”
Mrs O Rourke went back inside her shop and Johnny stood listening as she rammed the bolt in to place. The street was quiet; the last of the shoppers had all gone and he knew as he walked home, his mother would have a fire blazing and there would be plenty to eat. He had done it. He was a man with a job and could take care of his family. He stopped at the door of the flats, looked up at the heavens and whispered a prayer for those in need that night. His eyes were drawn to a light in the sky and there it was; the Christmas Star, shining as brightly as it had done over two thousand years before on another little boy.
Copyright © 2012 Gemma Mawdsley
(Part One)
Mrs O Rourke shook her head in wonder as she placed the doll in the window. It was a very beautiful doll by any standards and ordering it had been an impulse she could not resist, but the moment she opened the box she had regretted her lack of common sense. Who in their right mind would pay twelve shillings and sixpence for a toy, she wondered? She was so busy fanning its lace dress and fixing the blond curls that she didn’t notice the bright eyes, watching from outside. Despite the cold of the October morning, six-year-old Cathy Ryan pressed her nose and the palms of her hands against the icy glass and gazed enraptured at the doll. Today was her birthday and for the first time ever, she hadn’t received a present. They never got anything nice now, not since her Daddy died and she felt cheated. The doll caught her eye on the way to school; she was dawdling as always in the footsteps of her big brother, Johnny. The doll’s big, blue eyes and blond curls stopped her in her tracks and she swore she had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life. Her breath made small patches of condensation on the window pane and the glass, still damp with morning dew, made her nose wet.
“Cathy,” her brother stood reflected in the glass. “Will you hurry up; we’ll be late again.”
He grabbed her hand and dragged her away; terrified of getting a telling off from his teacher. He did well in school and he didn’t want anyone to complain about him; not now, not at this sad time. He felt tears gather in the corners of his eyes and his throat hurt when he thought about his mother. They had left her minutes before, so sad and forlorn, in the cold, two-bedroom flat they were forced to rent after his father died. It was on the top floor of a block of flats over a fish and chip shop. The stink of fish permeated the very bricks of the building and rose in waves from the worn carpet lining the stairs. The stench stuck to his clothes so the neighbourhood children held their noses as he passed by and made exaggerated wafting motions with their hands. There were six flights of wooden stairs to climb and no matter what time of day it was, the stairs were always dark and frightening. At first, he imagined some terrible monster lurking in the shadows on each landing, but now all such thoughts were gone as he assumed the role of man of the house.
Today was the hardest so far since his father’s passing. He realised how upset his mother was at not having a present for his little sister, but times were hard. At twelve, he was old enough to understand this, but his sister was still too young and couldn’t be expected to be as grown-up as he was about the whole birthday thing. His mother tried her best to find a job, but it was difficult. The year was nineteen-forty-two and jobs were hard to come by, especially for a woman with three children and two-year-old Jimmy wouldn’t start school for years.
“Johnny,” Cathy dug her heels in, forcing him to stop. “Do you think that if I’m good and say my prayers every night that Santa will bring me that doll for Christmas?”
“I don’t know, Cathy. It costs a lot of money and Mam barely has enough for food.”
“I know that,” she pouted. “But my teacher says that Christmas is a time of miracles, so I’m going to be very, very good and pray.”
That’s what we need, Johnny thought, a miracle.
When they reached the school gates, he let go of her hand and bent down to speak to her.
“Hold out you hand,” he ordered.
She did as he asked and watched as he pulled two paper-wrapped packets from his coat pocket. Each held a small currant scone. Their Mother baked these every night on the griddle over the fire and she was glad they had something to fill their empty bellies during the long school day. Johnny handed Cathy her scone and opening his packet broke his in half and added it to his sister’s. He did this every morning with the promise that he couldn’t eat a full scone and he knew that she could. While she was grateful for the extra food, she wondered how someone as big as her brother couldn’t manage a full one. Her stomach rumbled very loudly at times and she always seemed to be hungry. She saw Johnny at break times wolfing down his lunch and licking the paper clean of crumbs. He was a puzzle, her big brother.
No matter how hard he tried, Johnny couldn’t concentrate on his work that day. His mind kept wondering back to the cold flat where his mother and brother sat sad and hungry. He had to do something to ease their suffering, but what? The bitter autumn wind sliced through his threadbare jumper as he made his way home that afternoon. The wind’s sting carried with it the promise of a hard winter and he knew they’d never survive on what little money his mother had. Please God, he prayed. Help me find a way to feed my family.
It was at that moment he saw it; the answer to his prayers. Grabbing his sister’s hand, he ran her the rest of the way home. After depositing her, breathless at the flat, he mumbled an excuse about leaving a book behind at school and hurried out. He ran as fast as his legs would go, hoping all the while he hadn’t been dreaming. There it was, large as life, in Brown’s window, the sign that read, Messenger Boy Wanted.”
He brushed down his jumper and licking his hand, ran it through his dark, unruly hair. The smell when he entered the shop overwhelmed his empty stomach and made his head spin. Bread, still steaming from the ovens, lined the racks behind the counter and cakes in all the colours of the rainbow vied with the plainer pancakes and scones in shiny, glass cases. He waited behind some ladies as they chatted with Mr Brown until the shop was empty and the man noticed him.
“What can I get you, son?” Mr Brown asked.
The word son made Johnny catch his breath and it took a few seconds before he could speak, but the man waited, patiently.
“ I’ve come about the job, sir,” he nodded at the sign in the window.
“How old are you?” Mr Brown thought the puny boy before him couldn’t be much older than ten.
“ I’m twelve, sir and stronger than I look.”
They stared at one another for a moment and then the man spoke.
“It’s a heavy bike; mind and it would take a strong fellow to hold it.”
“Yes, sir, I could do it,” Johnny said.
“All right,” the man rubbed at his chin. “Wait there.”
As he waited, Johnny looked around at the wondrous things on the shelves until the clackity-clack of the bicycle wheels sounded as Mr Brown wheeled it out from the yard at the back of the shop. He steered it out on to the footpath and handed it to Johnny. The handlebars reached just above his chin and he couldn’t see over the huge wicker basket that was strapped to the front of the bike.
“All right,” Mr Brown said. “Have a go and we’ll see how you get on.”
Once the man let go of the bike, Johnny had to cling on for dear life; it must have weighed a ton. He managed to keep it upright, but when the front wheel went off the kerb, the bike, which was front heavy, took the boy with it.
“Sorry, sir,” Johnny looked up at the man with frightened eyes. “I just slipped, that’s all.”
Part Two tomorrow, folks.
Copyright © Gemma Mawdsley 2012
Hi everyone. On Thursday next I’ll be posting a story on my blog. No horror, just a nice Christmas story, enjoy.
Revenge is Sweet part Three
Lights flickered in the trees and Nora heard the cries of pain even at a distance. It was pitch black in the back garden and the biting wind sent the last of the leaves swirling about her feet. But Nora did not need a light to guide her way. No, the potion ensured she had perfect night vision and she traced the darting movement in the trees as she walked to the edge of the wood. The dog and cat stalked beside her, their padding steps making no sound on the soft ground. They, like their mistress, were feeling the rejuvenating effects of the potion. The crisp, night air overrode the stench of the rubbish dumped at the base of the trees. The wood was such a melancholy place now that the children were all gone and the tree trunks scarred with initials and crude carvings. She placed a hand on the tree nearest to her and felt its pain.
“Poor thing,” she whispered.
The ground was marshy and the fallen leaves crackled beneath her feet as she moved forward. It came again, a piteous cry of pain. Seth growled and she shushed him. 
“I have to hear,” she patted his head.
The light in the trees was becoming brighter and the scent of burning wood told her it was a fire and not a torch. Such a dangerous thing to do, here among the trees, but she knew those who lit it were not thinking about danger, which was just as well.
She moved closer, but stayed hidden in the shadows. Someone had formed a circle of rocks so at least the fire would not get out of control. The flames were low and her eyes widened when she saw the reason for the cries of pain. Someone was tied to one of the trees, his arms strapped behind the trunk, his face stained crimson. Mark Jones blocked her vision for a moment, but when he moved aside she saw to her horror, that it was his former right hand man who was being held captive.
“I’ll fuckin teach you to mess with my woman,” she heard Jones sneer. “We’ll see how much she likes you when I’m through.”
There were two other with Jones. Nora recognised them from seeing them around the estate and she knew they were trouble. She watched as Jones reached down and pulled a knife from a sheath inside his boot. It’s sharp, serrated edge glittered in the light from the fire.
“Pull down his pants,” Jones ordered one of his men.
The boy screamed and tried to wrestle free from his bonds, but it was useless.
“Please, Mark,” he sobbed. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I’m through listening to you, you cunt,” Jones nodded to the man to do as he ordered.
The boy cried louder as he felt the cold night air on his exposed scrotum.
“Mark, don’t,” he sobbed, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.
“You’ll never be able to screw anyone again,” Jones sneered, waving the knife in the terrified boy’s face.
Nora knew that the boy was the least vicious of the four who stood before her and his cries for mercy tore at her heart and brought with them visions of the burning times. Her sister had begged in the same way as the boy and their cries went unheard. He certainly did not deserve what Jones intended doing to him.
She moved out of the shelter of the trees and stood on the opposite side of the fire.
“What the fuck!” she heard one of the men say and her hackles bristled at his vulgarity.
Mark Jones followed the man’s gaze and turned round.
“What are you doing here, old woman?” He pointed the knife at her.
“I, like you, am here for revenge.”
The men looked at one another and laughed.
“What the fuck do you mean?” Jones eyes glittered will menace. 
“You injured me,” she touched the scar above her eye.
“And I’ll do it again,” he warned.
“No, you will not,” Nora felt the dog and cat move up beside her.
“Oh, what,” he swirled the knife around. “They are going to stop me?”
“You’ll find that they will,” Nora reached down and rubbed the dog’s head.
“You better fuck off,” Jones grew tired of her. “When I’m finished here, I’m coming for you next, you old witch.”
Nora began to chant, her words echoing in the silent air.
“What the fuck is she up to now,” Jones shook his head at the other men.
“She’s mad,” one of them muttered. “Nutty as a fruit cake.”
But even the boy had stopped crying and was watching as the flames caused the shape of the animals to swell and grow. Seth, the old dog, arched his back as his rib cage expanded. His mouth grew wider as his teeth grew in to sharp, vicious points. The cat leapt in to a tree, her nails stretching through the pads of her feet and her eyes glowed red among the dark leaves.
“Let the boy go,” Nora said.
“Go fuck yourself,” Jones swallowed hard, his eyes darting from the dog to the cat overhead.
“I’ll give you one last chance,” Nora said. “One chance to prove that you are human.”
“I’m going to slit your throat,” Jones hand shook as he pointed the knife at her. “Grab her, lads.”
The two men rushed forward. Seth sprang more wolf than dog and his teeth sank in to the throat of the first man. The cat flew from the tree, her talons tearing through the flesh on the other man’s throat, ripping veins and sending a fountain of blood spraying through the air. The leaves dripped crimson as they fell and lay dying at her feet.
Jones licked his lips and tried to swallow. What he had just witnessed seemed impossible; he wouldn’t have believed it, if he’d not seen it with his own eyes. The dog growled and the sound made the hairs on his head rise.
“I’ll report you for this,” he pretended bravado. “They’ll lock you up.”
He didn’t wait to hear her reply, but took off running through the trees. He would do as he said and she could not allow that to happen. She bent and whispered in the dog’s ear. It took off in pursuit and it was obvious from the screams echoing back that he had found his target. Mark Jones would never trouble anyone again.
“Please, missus,” the captive boy whispered, when Nora picked up the fallen knife.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Nora walked to the back of the tree and sawed through the ropes.
He fell, overcome from the pain of his beating. Nora knelt and helped him to pull up his pants. He was crying from shock and she pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her coat and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he wiped his face.
“I’ll help you to walk back to the houses and then you are on your own,” she held out her hand. “You will need to call an ambulance. You need hospital care.”
“He took my phone,” the boy nodded towards a pile of beer cans.
Nora pushed them aside and found the phone.
“Call them now,” she said and waited while he dialled with trembling fingers.
He gave the address of her road and leant on her as they started back through the trees.
“You will never speak to anyone about what happened here tonight,” she looked at him from the corner of her eye.
“Who would believe me?” He asked.
“I mean it,” she stopped and turned towards him. “If you breathe a word to anyone, you will suffer the same fate. They might take me away, but my pets will see you are punished.”
“I hear you,” she saw by his face that he understood. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Good,” she led him in through the back door of her house and out on to the road.
They walked to the end of the street and she left him sitting against a wall. The shrill moan of a siren was drawing closer and she knew he would soon be taken care of.
She stopped and tutted her displeasure at the front of her house where the white of egg glowed like silver snails trails. Little terrors, she shook her head as shells crunched beneath her feet. The estate was quiet for once, as thought those who lived in the nocturnal world sensed danger and had scurried away to their hiding places. Somewhere a dog barked, its sound joining that of the ambulance siren. Nora went inside and closed the door. The dog and cat sat waiting in the kitchen. Both were back to normal, but showing signs of the battle.
“What a mess,” Nora wet a cloth and wiped the blood from the dog’s face.
The cat sat on the draining board and lifted each paw as her mistress cleared away the last of the blood.
The savage attack, as the papers describe it, was the talking point for days, but interest soon trickled off. Jones and the men were known to the police and no one was surprised that they had come to a bad end. A pack of dogs was blamed for the injuries, the nice policeman who called to ask questions told Nora.
“Probably some vicious breed trained to kill,” he patted old Seth on the head. “Not like you, old fellow, eh?”
Some good did come of it though as since that night little old ladies can now walk the streets without fear of harm and the feral cats and dogs are given a wide berth. Nora saw the boy a few times since, but he rushed by and refused to make eye contact with her. He, no doubt, had hinted to others that he knows something about what happened that night, but there are none interested enough to press him on the subject. Tales have grown around the killings and fear and superstition are rife even in these enlightened times. And there is always next year!
Copyright © Gemma Mawdsley 2012
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