A Season For Everything - Matthew Fairman (pocket ebook reader .TXT) 📗

long walk up to the quarry and along the meadows that skirted the valley side. The journey from his old home to the quarry had become a regular pilgrimage for him. And it did feel like it was his old home. He knew that things had changed forever, that he would not be allowed to go back to his old job. He was desperate to break free from what his life had become and for better or for worse he had done that. The woman’s body in the quarry would always be there, no matter what he did. Even if he had buried her in the deepest darkest hole, she would always be present in his mind from one waking day to the next. he seemed to be stepping back from a normal way of life. Creeping backwards into the shadow of the mines. Rubbing away the layers of himself until all that would be left was a phantom, a spectre that lived in the quarry on the hill. Down through the woods and past the old canal back out on to the streets of the town.

 

Beaton skirted around to the row of garages behind the terrace. He unlatched the gate and snuck into his own back garden. The moon reflected from the rooftops, a cold slate blue halation projected onto the tiles. The snow glowed bright amongst the shadows with an unnatural luminescence. His house looked strange, foreign. The water butt had been pushed back into place but the glass louvre panels were still on the ground covered by a thin layer of snowfall. The hole in the window had been boarded up with a sheet of chipboard. He looked at the window. It didn’t seem like his home at all. He couldn’t get into the house, his keys were still upstairs. He crept into the potting shed and sat down on a bag of compost. Inside smelt of cut pine and creosote, spiders webs clustered around the shelves and spun confused webs around the stacks of terracotta plant pots. The window panes were clouded with grime, they let in the light but it was impossible to actually look in or out. He leaned his back against the wall and stretched out his legs and he felt the cold air creeping through the gaps in the loose boards. He sat like that through the night barely managing to catch a few hours of sleep.

 

Friday 23rd

 

He watched the dark blue sky fade into a pale brown haze. The sun climbed as far as it could manage and settled itself low in the sky. In a black bucket besides the door was a roll of heavy duty rubble sacks and some gardening gloves. He picked them up and put them in his pocket. From a small hook on the wall, he took down a compass saw. There was a small crack in the orange plastic and the blade was flecked with spots of rust but other than that it seemed to be in good shape. He opened the door and threw it onto the lawn. From the shelf he picked up a pair of secateurs. He unlocked the catch and tested the spring mechanism. He put them in his pocket with the rubble sacks. ‘I’ve go to hide the saw’, He thought, ‘It wouldn’t look right to be carrying it around in the open’ He found an old nylon duffle bag stuffed under the shelf. He pulled it out, it was heavy. Inside were some old bicycle tools. He brought the bag out into the garden and emptied the contents onto the ground. He put away the saw with the rubble sack and pruning scissors leaving a scattered pile of odds and ends.

He had his hand on the latch ready to leave the garden when he heard the sound of a metal bolt sliding from a socket and a key turning in its lock. In the doorway at the top of the steps stood Mrs Gream. In her hands she held a basket of clean washing ready for hanging on the clothes line. They stood there, stock still. As if one were waiting for the other to make the first move. It was Mrs Gream that took the initiative. Whether she had meant to or not was another matter. The washing basket fell from her arms and rattled down the steps spilling the fresh white sheets on to the patio. Beaton hurled the duffle bag over the fence and vaulted after it. He stumbled from the flower beds and fell to the ground, next to him was a small stone tortoise, the kind of thing you find in a garden centre. He grabbed it by its shell and picked it up. Mrs Gream let out a scream and ran back into her house slamming and locking the kitchen door. Beaton thrust the heavy base of the concrete statue through the glass. He heard the old lady hollering from inside the kitchen and saw Mrs Gream dash into the hallway. Beaton batted the loose shards of glass from around edge of the window and reached inside he unlocked the door. He ran through the kitchen and grabbing the newel post he swung around in an arc pulling himself onwards and up the staircase. He stood panting on the landing leaning hard on the hand rail. On the floor above the skirting board was the telephone socket. The cable followed the edge of the carpet and disappeared under the nearest door. He reached down and delicately unclipped the lead from the wall socket and heard a suppressed whimper from inside the room.

‘Mrs Gream, Mrs Gream, I just want to talk’

His hand resting on the handle he slowly opened the door. It opened easily, it wasn’t locked. He could hear a low sobbing. Mrs Gream was kneeling behind the bed with her head hung down, she held the telephone in her hands.

‘It’s me Mrs Gream, It’s your neighbour Beaton.’

‘What do you want, Go away, leave me alone’ She began sobbing again.

Beaton sat down on the bed the concrete stone tortoise resting in his lap. She stopped looking like a little old lady and looked more like a little girl kneeling for her bedtime prayers. ‘Who were you phoning Mrs Gream? Was it the police?’ Did you call them before?’ She didn’t answer, she just gave out the same low suppressed sobs.

 

Beaton stood and pulled the blanket from the bed and threw it over Mrs Gream. It covered her completely like a shroud over a statue. Muffled sobs continued to come from beneath the cover. He sat back down the stone tortoise resting in his lap as if he might be contemplating what his next move might be. He stood up all of a sudden and held the concrete garden ornament by its pointy hat above Mrs Gream’s head. He turned his head away and looked out of the window, down into the garden, there was a squirrel eating from a bird feeder. It swung wildly upside down, its tail bobbing and ticking maniacally. He screwed his eyes tight shut and felt the heavy weight slip through his grip, it was followed by a thud and the sobbing suddenly ceased. The squirrel was still swinging upside down from the little mesh cage, a magpie screamed from a tree top. When he looked down, Mrs Gream was slumped sideways, the red was soaking through the bed cover, seeping into the fabric like blotting paper. He lifted the cover and threw it aside. Her face was slack, the loose skin around her jaw hung about in loose flaps like a turkeys wattle. Her short her was matted with the wet blood that still pooled into the bed cover beneath her head. Her left eyelid was partly open but he could only see a slice of white inside the socket. Beaton crouched down and rolled over the old lady’s body so she was face downwards on the carpet. Mrs Gream’s breathing was soft and shallow almost imperceptible. Beaton stood up unbuckled his belt and slid it from the belt loops. He thread one end of the belt through the frame of the bedstead and feeding it through the buckle he pulled it tight. He looked about the room. He found a knitting bag on the floor by the bedside table. He pulled two needles form the bag and pushed one of the needles through the leather as close to the buckle as possible. He tugged at the buckle to make sure that it was securely attached the bed frame. Picking up the loose end of the belt, Beaton looped it through the telephone chord binding Mrs Gream’s arms and folded it back on itself. He then staked the two strips of leather together with the second knitting needle.

The old lady lay on her side tied to the bed frame with her hands behind her back. Beaton went to the dresser and rooted through the drawers. In the bottom drawer he found a balled up pair of brown sheer tights. He unravelled the tights and wrapping it around Mrs Gream’s head he gagged her mouth. He took a pillow from the bed and stripped the cover from it and pulled it over the old lady’s head. From downstairs his pocket he took the ball of garden twine and bound the old lady’s hands tightly behind her back. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands and face. He looked for a razor but there was none, instead finding a pair of scissors. He trimmed the hair on his face as close to the skin as he could manage. He went downstairs and looked through the kitchen cupboards. He found a tin of spaghetti hoops and heated them in a bowl in the microwave and made himself some toast. He sat chewing the meal methodically staring into the happy face of the stone tortoise. From the kitchen he could see down the hallway to the front door with its stained glass. The walls and carpet were illuminated with burning patches of blue and red. He watched the silhouette of the postman come and go, some letters fell through the letterbox and onto the door matt. The house was quiet, peaceful. It was interesting to see his house from another persons perspective. From a room in another persons house. In the garden the squirrel was gone, a magpie sat on a branch above the bird feeder. ‘One for sorrow’, it was a rhyme that his wife used to say. ‘One for sorrow, two for joy.’ He put the dirty dishes in the sink and swept up the broken glass from the back door step. From a cupboard he stole a packet of crackers. He shut the door and locked it from the outside, placing the key in his pocket. He picked up his duffle bag and went to the back gate. It was locked. He clambered back over the fence into his own back garden and out into the alleyway past the garages. He looked like any other man who was going to work on a friday morning.

 

Hollis dropped the boys of at school and drove out of town until she reached the village. She followed the steep road up the hill past the Quarryman’s arms and parked near the old village green at the uppermost corner of the wooded quarry. She leant against the car and looked down across the valley, it had been so long time since she had stood up here. ‘It must have been when the boys were smaller, much smaller.’ It was impossible to get them out of the house these days. They preferred to stay in and play video games than go out. ‘When I was young you couldn’t get me to stay inside.’ She thought to herself. She left the car and walked to the gate that marked the top entrance to the Quarry. She followed the tracks that had been made