The Bitter End Read online

  She smiled again – a teary kind of smile. ‘She’s never done that before. I must have frightened her. I'd better go and see if I can find her.’

  ‘Sal, she’ll come back when she’s ready.’

  But Sally was already at the back door. ‘Maybe she was hurt, and I touched a sore spot. I’ll just see if I can call her in.’

  Paul would have preferred for the darn thing to stay out permanently, but it was just like Sally to find a reason for its erratic behaviour. It hadn’t looked hurt, the way it padded in and gave him that contemptuous stare.

  The cool evening air breezed in through the open door. The nights were drawing in and it was already quite dark outside. Paul didn’t actually like the thought of Sally wandering about in the dark on her own. But that was madness. This was her home. She loved everything about this place and it certainly didn’t unnerve her. Even so …

  He stood in the doorway, gazing out at the shadowy outlines of the barns and trees. He’d missed not doing any wood carving today. He'd liked to have gone out and done some now, but that would hardly have helped the mood of the day. It would wait until tomorrow.

  ‘Sal!’ He couldn't see her outline so stepped outside, slightly irritated that she'd vanished completely. ‘For God's sake, Sal … I can’t see you. Where are you?’

  Away from the kitchen light, the garden fell into shadow. He could just imagine her putting her foot down a rabbit hole and breaking her ankle or catching her face on some brambles. She was being totally irrational. Bloody cat. ‘Sal! Where are you?’

  Silence hummed in his ears. You didn’t get silence like this in the city. This was total silence. But then the tiniest little sounds became magnified. Trees rustled. That damn yew tree was scratching at the bedroom window behind him. Something was squeaking in the undergrowth. Far off, he caught the echo of an owl hooting. That beautiful barn owl, he guessed, but the sound felt ominous now, almost unnerving.

  He headed down the garden, his feet swishing through the grass. He felt the dampness that came with the onset of autumn. There was a chill in the air. They'd soon be needing the fire lit every evening.

  ‘Sally, where are you?’

  He checked the barns and his workshop, but the latches were down. Surely she hadn’t gone into the woods looking for the damn cat.

  ‘Sal …’ Someone was behind him. Instinct kicked in and he swung around aggressively. She was there. Right in front of him. Wide eyed, white faced. ‘Christ, you scared the crap out of me! Sal, don't sneak up on me like that!’

  She clung to his arm.

  The relief at finding her was more than he cared to analyse, and then he sensed her fear. His wits sharpened. ‘What’s happened?’

  She started leading him back towards the house. ‘Nothing. I … nothing, let’s go in. Bluebell will be back for her breakfast, I’m sure.’

  Paul looked over Sally’s head, towards the forest. ‘Did you go looking for her in the woods? For Christ’s sake, Sal – it’s pitch black. What happened, did you lose your bearings?’

  ‘No, I could see the lights from the house,’ she said, trying to make him walk faster. ‘I was okay.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me shouting after you? I was worried. You just vanished.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Yes, I did hear you. I just didn’t want to shout back.’

  He looked at her. Her eyes were still wide – wild. ‘Why?’ he asked calmly.

  She was practically dragging him indoors. ‘I’ll tell you when we’re inside. It’s so cold out here.’

  ‘It’s not that cold.’ But obviously she felt it, she visibly shuddered as she slammed the kitchen door shut, turned the key and pushed the bolt across.

  Paul leant on the kitchen unit, arms folded. Sally bustled about, filling the kettle, spooning coffee into cups. Her hands were trembling. He wrapped his arms around her and grabbed her close. ‘Sal, will you please tell me what’s frightened you?’

  She gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Nothing … well, except my own imagination.’

  ‘Well, that can be a pretty powerful source. Go on, what did you imagine?’

  ‘It’s stupid,’ she said, relaxing a little. ‘I thought I saw Bluebell running straight down the garden towards the woods, so I followed her. I didn’t find the little madam, but I went in a short way.’ She looked at Paul defensively. ‘I’m perfectly familiar with the countryside, the dark doesn’t scare me.’

  ‘So, what did?’ he asked patiently.

  ‘I heard a noise. Just a noise, some animal, I suppose. But it was quite close and while I could hear you shouting for me, I didn’t want to shout back in case … in case I alerted it to me. I didn’t know what it was. I started to think about that snake. I could imagine one coiling around my ankles. Then two snakes, three …’

  ‘That wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘I know. But for a minute it’s what ran through my head. Then I realised the sound was too loud for a snake or a little creature. It was a big sound, like a person – and I froze.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘I thought I did – but just for a second.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘She …’

  He stared at her. ‘You saw a woman?’

  Sally made another attempt at making coffee. ‘It looked like a woman, yes, a very tall woman, but I honestly think it was just my imagination. You know, the trees can look like people at times.’

  ‘So, what exactly did you think you saw?’

  She was silent for a while, and then turning her innocent blue eyes on Paul, she said simply, ‘A witch. Pointy hat and everything. Paul, I thought I saw a witch.’

  An image flicked into his mind. A face hovering over him, contorted with rage. A face that was beyond ugly. A face that snarled and shrieked. Cat! Something about a cat. And then the pain – the shooting pain through his skull.

  He turned away on the pretext of getting milk from the fridge, not wanting Sally to have something else to fret over. The pain would subside. It had to. But where the hell that vision had come from, he had no idea.

  He found some words to fill the void. ‘A witch? Like your friend from the shop?’

  ‘No! Like the Wicked Witch of the West, Wizard of Oz type of witch.’ She tried to laugh and failed.

  ‘Spooky!’ Paul murmured, amazed at how normal he sounded. The pain faded, as did the image, but it left him feeling uneasy. He made his coffee extra strong.

  11

  The following morning Sally was back to her usual self. Bluebell had strolled in for her breakfast, coiling herself around Sally’s ankles as if nothing had happened. He was amazed at how easily Sally could forgive her for lashing out.

  Personally, he couldn’t wait to feel the wood chisel in his hand again. The fact that rain was hammering down outside only served to give the house a more intimate feel and he felt unusually happy as he worked, with Sally just an arm’s length away. Meeting up with Owen again yesterday was the icing on the cake.

  Conference calls with foreign security agents were coming in thick and fast as arrangements for the Peace Conference were put in place. The media were working themselves up into a frenzy about it and while he kept his thoughts to himself, he still doubted that it could be achieved successfully. Time would tell.

  Sally insisted on making him some lunch before allowing him to disappear down to his workshop. Paul ate it dutifully, feeling that every moment spent eating was time better spent crafting wood.

  Finally opening up the barn door and breathing in the scent of freshly carved bark came with a rush of relief and excitement. The vaguely formed oak bust sat blindly on his work bench, held in place with a clamp inlaid with foam so as not to damage the grain. He had no idea whether that was how real wood carvers operated, but it worked for him.

  The head was definitely male. The sweep of receding hair indicated, without doubt, that it was male. Paul picked up his narrow gouge, wiping it on a cloth before bringing it close to the chunk of ova
l shaped wood. From the hairline, he smoothed the blade down over the forehead, shaping the broad expanse of skull; feather-like slithers of wood shavings fell to his feet at he worked.

  He found an even more delicate tool for carving the eyes, feathering the tips of eyelashes and eye lids, shaving away just the right amount of wood to reveal the creases and folds of skin around the eyes. If he’d stopped to analyse how he was doing this, he knew he wouldn’t have had a clue, but working instinctively, without a plan in mind, his hands, or maybe it was the tools, simply moulded the features, bringing life to a soulless block of wood.

  Sally’s voice from the doorway made him start. ‘Paul, you have a visitor.’

  He turned, irritated. He didn’t want visitors. But when he saw who was standing beside Sally, his face broke into a huge smile and he strode over to hug his old pal.

  ‘Owen! Good to see you again.’

  Owen slapped him on the back. ‘You too, my friend. Hope you don’t mind me dropping by. Woke up this morning thinking I’d dreamed seeing you again. Just had to get myself over here and double check.’

  Paul smiled. ‘Yes, I'm here, alive and kicking.’

  ‘And you’ve turned into a bit of an artist,’ he said, wandering over to the work bench. ‘Look at this! You went to college to study the craft, then?’

  ‘Lord no. I’ve only been doing this since moving here.’

  Owen whistled. ‘Good stuff, mate. You always liked a bit of wood whittling when we were kids. Hey – I bought you a penknife for your birthday.’

  ‘You did indeed, it had a red plastic handle. I remember it. Would you believe, that’s one of the few memories I have of those years?’

  ‘Then we’ve you to thank for his latent skills,’ Sally said, slipping her arm through Paul’s. ‘He’s fabulous, naturally gifted. And it’s so lovely that he’s making use of this old barn – and finding time to relax. If you’d seen how uptight he was when we first met, you’d say he was a different person.’

  Paul kissed the top of Sally’s head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. ‘I am a different person, Sal. Thanks to you.’

  Owen wrapped an arm around his shoulder and gave his old chum a shake. ‘What I want is to catch up with the old Paul, see what kind of chap you've turned into. I’ve given myself a few hours off this afternoon. How about you and me sit down over a pint and really catch up.’

  ‘Well, I was just working on this …’

  ‘It’ll still be around tomorrow.’ He took the chisel from Paul’s hand and dropped it onto the workbench.

  Paul bit back a sharp retort that these tools needed treating with respect, then realised he needed to get his priorities in order. Owen was right, the bust would still be here tomorrow, and he hadn’t seen his old pal in a long, long time.

  He dusted sawdust and wood shavings off his clothes. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Sally?’

  She shrugged and gave a funny little smile. ‘No. You two boys go off and talk. I’ve work to do, anyway.’

  Owen grinned, that same old familiar grin that Paul remembered so well. ‘There! Permission to go out and play. What time does he have to be back, mum?’

  Sally took a playful swipe at Owen, then stretched up and kissed Paul. ‘See you later.’

  Paul closed the barn door with a feeling of reluctance. He could almost hear the bust calling out for him to stay, not leave it locked inside the block of wood. He needed to get the nose and mouth carved, so it could breathe.

  He almost laughed at the fanciful notion. There was time enough to work on the carving. Plenty of time.

  Owen bought two pints and two double whisky chasers, and they sat in the Crow and Feathers and clinked glasses.

  ‘So, you’ve given yourself the afternoon off, Owen,’ Paul said, swiping foam from his lips. ‘I suppose you can when you’re running your own company. How’s that going, then? Is business good?’

  ‘It’s not bad. We’ve got a pretty hefty order from the MOD, so that will see us through to next summer.’

  ‘Sounds good. What's the company's name?’

  Owen told him. Paul recognised the name instantly.

  ‘We make nose cones for warheads, amongst other things,’ Owen continued.

  Paul breathed deeply. The last thing Owen should be doing was telling anybody what his company was making if it was for the MOD. ‘You did sign the Official Secrets Act, didn't you?’

  Owen knocked his whisky straight back. ‘It's only you I'm telling, and you're no spy, are you?’

  ‘No, I'm not,’ Paul answered. ‘So how do you feel about being in this line of business?’

  ‘If you want to make money, make bombs! Fair enough, war brings misery, but I didn't start any of the troubles. Besides, if I wasn't doing this, someone else would.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Paul.

  ‘Anyway, enough about politics,’ Owen said, punching his shoulder. ‘Do you remember those play fights we had as kids? Jesus, I wouldn't want to mess with you now. They must have fed you well in the Navy. What height are you?

  ‘Six four, sixteen stone. Have been since the day I joined the Navy.’

  ‘And to think I used to tower over you when we were kids.’ Owen laughed. ‘Glad you're on my side! Hey, do you remember that old girl, the witch? You used to be shit scared of her.’

  Paul stopped, glass half-raised to his mouth. ‘The witch?’ That ugly hate-filled face was back, clouding his mind.

  Owen grinned. ‘Yeah, the old hag, lived by the woods. We used to dare each other to knock on her door and then leg it before she came out and turned us into toads or something.’

  Paul gulped a mouthful of whisky, thinking it odd that Sally had thought she's seen a witch last night, and now Owen, prattling on about witches. But not in his wildest dreams would he find knocking on an old woman’s door then running away, fun, even as a little kid. But what did he know? He'd got no memory of those days. And judging by the look on Owen’s face, his old pal wasn’t making it up.

  ‘I don’t remember that, but the odd thing is, Sally thought she saw a witch in the woods last night.’

  Owen raised one eyebrow. ‘Well our witch would be dead by now. She must have been eighty when we were kids. Don’t know what your Sal thought she saw but it couldn’t have been the old dear we used to … er … tease.’

  Torment sounded a more apt description, Paul thought, frowning and trying to get this whole tale into perspective. ‘We sound like a pair of right little brats. What was she, some poor old woman living alone with a black cat?’

  ‘You remember the cat?’ Owen asked, looking down into his pint.

  ‘No. I don’t remember a cat, nor the old woman. I’m just surmising. Go on, embarrass me with my misdemeanours.’

  Owen slurped on his beer. ‘It was just a bit of harmless fun, really. She was, like you say, an old dear living on her own in a cottage by the woods. She did have a black cat. Kids used to call her a witch. Rumours about her went back years. Some people blamed her for poisoning the local church congregation just after the war. She was new around here, foreign, weird. Some reckon she had connections with the Nazis. Others reckoned the cat was her ‘familiar’, you know, she’d have sex with it. We used to dare each other to peep through her window and see if we could catch them shagging.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Paul murmured, shaking his head. ‘I don’t remember any of this. You sure it was me? I wouldn’t find that fun, and unless a bump on the head changed my entire personality, I can’t see me doing that.’

  ‘Well you did, matey. In fact, it was a bit of a ritual. We’d play about in the woods, then get bored and hit on her again, just for devilment.’

  ‘Did we ever get caught?’

  ‘We had a few close shaves. I reckon she knew what we thought and played along. She came out in the full regalia one time. Black pointed hat, long black clothes, warts, broomstick, the lot. Christ, we nearly shit ourselves.’

  Paul laughed because Owen expected it and took another mouth
ful of ale. ‘I bet we did. But I don’t recall any of that. I do remember you building a bonfire, though.’

  Owen’s eyes met his over the rim of his glass. His voice was softer. ‘You remember the bonfire?’

  ‘Yes, I remember you building a bonfire, and I was whittling something from a bit of wood. A cat, I think, or a dog. Do you remember that?’

  ‘I remember,’ he said fixing Paul with a sharp look. ‘What else do you remember about that day?’

  Paul thought back but all he could see was his own hands whittling away at the wood, the penknife with the red inlaid handle, and Owen building a bonfire. ‘Nothing really. That was it.’

  ‘You don’t remember seeing the bonfire burning?’

  Paul shook his head.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Owen pressed, leaning towards him. ‘Are you sure you don’t remember something burning in it?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  Owen shrugged. ‘I thought you might because that was the day.’

  ‘What day?’

  Owen looked steadily at him. ‘The day you bashed your brains in.’

  Paul rocked in his seat, stunned that the one sparse memory was of that fateful day. Was that why he remembered fragments of it? Like shards of broken glass leading up to it. ‘What happened?’

  For a good minute Owen sat silently, his gaze switching from the bottom of his whisky glass to Paul sitting opposite. Finally, he said, ‘You ran. We got into trouble for lighting a fire in the woods and you ran. You stumbled, hit your head and the rest is history.’

  ‘Simple as that?’ Paul murmured. ‘Was someone chasing us?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Who?’

  Owen shrugged. ‘Just some passer-by – same bloke that rang for the ambulance when he saw the state you were in.’

  Paul had the distinct feeling that his friend was lying, but about what precisely he didn’t know. ‘Did you come in the ambulance with me?’

  More hesitation, then finally Owen shook his head. ‘I wasn’t allowed. I came and visited you in hospital though, mate. Time and again I came and saw you lying there. I thought that maybe on your birthday you’d wake up. We made a right din that day. All the kids from class made a special vigil to your bedside. We all sang Happy Birthday and left presents for you. Then Mrs Bentley, you remember her? Well she started crying and we all came home again.’