The Bitter End Page 9

  ‘Really? Is your mother in a home?’

  ‘No, it’s not her.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Well, remember me telling you that as a kid I used to knock on an old woman’s door and run away? Well it seems she’s still alive and living in a local nursing home.’

  Sally’s jaw dropped. ‘Was this Owen’s idea?’

  ‘No. Why would it be?’

  ‘Because it sounds like one of his stupid pranks. Paul, she won’t remember you, and if she does you’ll put the fear of God into her.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Sal, I need to apologise to her and …’

  ‘And what?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing. I just need to apologise to her. It’s bugging me. It’s something I need to do.’

  ‘Is Owen going, too?’

  ‘No. I haven’t mentioned this to him.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘Because if he's involved I want nothing to do with it and I’d suggest you don’t either.’

  ‘It’s me, just me,’ he said, looking hopefully at her. ‘It would be friendlier having you along, being a woman – and a gorgeous one at that. How about it?’

  ‘Against my better judgement,’ she groaned, moving around the table to sit on his lap. ‘And I think it’s a mad idea.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So how did you track her down, anyway?’

  He stroked her thigh, loving the fact that she wore such soft, silky skirts, even though the weather was turning colder.

  ‘Well actually, Sal, it’s been on my mind, so this afternoon I called by the little cottage where she used to live. Someone else is living there now, and she told me.’ For a split second he saw those vivid green eyes sparkling with mischief as she’d told him not to run away if he ever knocked on her door again.

  ‘Oh, I wonder if I know her. What does she look like?’

  Careful, Paul, a little voice in his head warned. He chose his words carefully. ‘I’d say she’s about ten years older than you, fair hair, a bit top-heavy.’

  ‘I probably know her by sight,’ shrugged Sally, kissing the tip of his nose before getting back on her feet. ‘Still, if it helps you sleep easy I’ll come with you. But if she freaks out when she sees you and has a heart attack, I’ll blame you!’

  * * *

  With just one touch, the suggestion has been made. Never knowing, never suspecting that my eyes are upon them. I move silently from cat to rat, bird to snake, I see all as they blunder on into the future. A future I have twisted for them. I lust for the fulfilment of my plans. Their suffering is my joy.

  Mankind believe they are now their own God, such arrogance, creating such things as only Gods can. With powers to destroy the very world they have been given, and this has blinded them from their sad creator. The more they have progressed the easier it has become to end their days. Now is the time for my Master – my God. Now is the time. Now is the final act.

  * * *

  Paul was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow and at some point in the night he felt Sally’s hand fondling him. He lay on his back, eyes closed, loving the sensations tingling through his loins. His thoughts were straying. In his head it was a certain blonde with green eyes stroking him, the fantasy made him harden and when Sally lowered her head taking him into her mouth it was thick blonde hair that his fingers tangled in as he tried to control the rhythm of her movements. It was almost too much, her tongue, the heat of her mouth and before it was too late he took her by the shoulders and pushed her down onto the bed, covering her body with his, thrusting into her – into the green-eyed blonde.

  Sally gasped and for the first time Paul opened his eyes. Startling green eyes full of devilments stared up into his. And in the next instant they were gone, Sally’s face looked up at him. She seemed sleepy and confused, as if he’d just jumped on her out of the blue, and that she hadn’t been fondling him for the last ten minutes.

  Then she was holding him and writhing in unison with his movements, gasping now with a lust that equalled his own.

  It was only later when they were both lying beside each other that Paul felt a twinge of guilt. But it was all in his mind, he told himself. He’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t actually made love to the green-eyed blonde. It was nothing more than a fantasy.

  Next morning however, he just knew that Sally was going to make some comment, and he wasn’t disappointed. He eventually went down to his workshop with the words horny beast and sex-god ringing in his ears.

  The grass was damp underfoot and a cold grey mist hung over the garden and clouded the treetops. Leaves on skeletal branches had turned to gold and a herringbone pattern of fallen leaves carpeted the grass. He lit the paraffin heater and closed the workshop door behind him. The half-finished bust sat on his work bench, staring right at him. It stopped him in his tracks as he tried to work out who it reminded him of. Maybe he'd figure it out when he’d got the mouth formed. At the moment it looked as if the head had been gagged. From the nose downwards the wood was flat and shapeless apart from natural cracks. Paul took up his chisel and stepped up to the bust.

  Forming the mouth was easier than he had anticipated, the slithers of oak just fell away, leaving behind a mouth that was slightly down curved. It had a thin top lip, fuller bottom lip, and a chin that told of arrogance and surety. He was lightly smoothing the head with fine sandpaper when Sally came in with a mug of coffee.

  She practically dropped it. ‘My God! That’s amazing! That's President Howard, isn't it?’

  Paul stopped what he was doing, the revelation totally throwing him. And of course, she was right. No wonder it had seemed so familiar to him. Good grief, he thought, the power of the subconscious.

  In his own mind it was just the bust of some guy. How the hell it had turned into the President of the USA he had no idea. But it was him all right – every inch a dead ringer.

  ‘Paul, you are so clever. This is utterly brilliant. If you sell this to Juliet, you ought to ask a hundred.’

  ‘No, I’m not selling it,’ he answered, without a second thought.

  She raised her eyebrows warily. ‘You're not thinking of putting it on the mantlepiece, are you?’

  He smiled, his thoughts racing. ‘No, I think I have something else in mind for it.’

  ‘And that is?’

  Paul scratched his head. ‘I'm just wondering if the President might like it as a gift when he comes over for the Peace Conference.’

  ‘Knowing him, I think he'd love it!’ She threaded her arm through his. ‘It really is incredible.’

  He had to agree that it was – magical, even. Proper wood sculptors took years to hone their skills. This had come ridiculously easy to him and he couldn't supress a little chuckle of glee. He took the mug of coffee from Sally’s hands. ‘My work is done. Time for a coffee!’

  Before the sun completely set for the day, Paul took the axe down from the wall. As ever he relished the feel of silky smooth ash as he gripped the long handle. And feeling slightly in awe of the cold sharpness of the blade, he took it reverently into the forest.

  Finding the fallen oak and the particular knotted piece of bark that had caught his eye earlier, he sized up where the axe would have to fall. He was sweating by the time he’d cut through the branch and severed the desired piece.

  Carrying it home, the old cracked and wrinkled face stared accusingly up at him, making him whimsically feel that he was carrying a decapitated head. He stopped for a moment and studied the knotted piece of bark. Was it a witch’s face? It was certainly ugly enough.

  It was almost dark by the time he neared the edge of the woods and could glimpse the distant lights from their cottage. There were scampering noises around him now as the forest came alive with its nocturnal habitants and he could understand how Sally had got so unnerved the night she thought she'd seen a witch. Determinedly he cast the thought aside. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d got witches on the brain.

  Picking hi
s way through the undergrowth, and trying and failing to keep to the track he realised the more eager he was to get home, the slower his progress was becoming. The weight of the axe and the chunk of wood were taking their toll and on more than one occasion he considered leaving the chunk of wood and coming back for it tomorrow. Not the axe, though. He wouldn’t be leaving the axe anywhere.

  Mustering up his energy he trekked on. His downturned eyes concentrating on the forest floor so he didn't trip, rather than keeping an eye out for old crones in pointed hats.

  Finally reaching the rear of his workshop he made a silent resolution not to be hanging about in the woods after dark again. It wasn’t that he was afraid, but there were better places to spend the evening.

  Placing the chunk of wood onto his workbench next to the President, he hung the axe back onto the wall. Then, switching off the light, he closed the barn door and went indoors to find Sally.

  She was up to her eyes in Italian leather and had completely lost track of time. The fact that she hadn't made dinner bugged her.

  ‘Sally, sweetheart, don’t beat yourself up about it. I don’t expect you to cook for me every evening. I’m perfectly capable. In fact, leave it to me. I’ll shout you when dinner’s ready.’

  Her hair dangled over one eye making her look too cute for words. He gave her a kiss before heading into the kitchen.

  He went for something hearty – fat pork sausages, big rustic chips and crusty bread. A rich red wine seemed slightly out of place, but it still tasted good. They sat curled up on the sofa under a blanket, talking until midnight. Later, when Paul made love to Sally, it was her and not some green-eyed vixen lying beneath him.

  13

  All is as it should be. It is all in motion and these fools know only what they see.

  Back in London, there were meetings with the Home Secretary and confidential discussions with foreign security officials aligned to every dignitary who'd be at the Peace Conference. Paul needed to know precisely who'd be here, every last person. It was always taxing, liaising with foreign agencies, with them all wanting their own minister or state official taken care of with more sense of importance than the next. So, he was thankful for having a good team working alongside of him as tension heightened.

  With work being intense, he was more than happy to get the chance to work from home again. Sally stood behind him massaging his neck and shoulders as he sat at his computer.

  ‘Don't let them get to you, Paul,’ she murmured. ‘Remember how tense you were when we met? You don't want to get like that again.’

  He sighed, her touch melting away the stress of the past week. ‘I'm trying not to.’

  ‘Good!’ she murmured. ‘So, are things starting to fall into place, now?’

  ‘Kind of. Although if you read the news headlines, you'd think we were heading for world war three instead of talking peace.’

  ‘There’s a lot at stake, I imagine.’

  ‘Absolutely. Do you realise this is the closest we’ve ever got to finding a solution to the Middle East and the Korean problems? We’ve got a real chance of people finally living in harmony if these talks go well. But there's always somebody expecting the worse, thinking it's going to go tits up and it’ll escalate into a crisis we can’t handle.’

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ she said, kissing the top of his head before going back to her work.

  ‘Amen to that,’ he agreed.

  It was mid-afternoon when he finally found some free time to go down to his workshop. The short walk across the damp grass took away the final strands of tension and now the familiar tingle of excitement over the prospect of carving wood took over.

  A grey squirrel scampered across his path. It stopped and sat cheekily on its haunches to watch him opening the barn door. Familiar sawdusty smells engulfed him and he breathed them in hungrily.

  His first job was to light the heater and get some warmth around the place. Picking up the bust of the President he shook his head in amazement. How the hell had his subconscious allowed him to create something so accurate, let alone finding the skillsets needed? He'd waxed the base, except for a small circle that would serve as a drain for the moisture still in the wood and then varnished it. As far as he could tell, it was life-sized, and definitely far more appealing than the piece of bark he’d acquired last week. He picked that up and stared into the wizened old face. It certainly wasn't an attractive face. The features were too sharp; it offered a cold and calculating stare. Male, he guessed, or a very ugly female. And he hadn't a clue what he was going to do with it.

  Maybe if he shaped and smoothed the surrounding wood he could turn it into a wall plaque. Though who in their right mind would want it? Still, it would be a crime not to try and do something with it now he’d severed it from the rest of the tree. He picked up a small sander and decided to give it his best shot.

  He worked until early evening when Sally came looking for him. Then again through Saturday morning, working with the barn door open so he and Sally could chat. She’d decided to tidy up her garden and as well as raking up all the fallen leaves, was snipping off dead branches and making a bonfire over by her compost heaps.

  ‘If there’s any bits of old wood that you can use, Paul, just take them. But I think it’s just rubbish, actually.’

  What she was piling into a heap was nothing more than twigs – a lot of twigs, and when she finally put a match to them, it caused quite a blaze.

  ‘You've done a good job with that fire,’ Paul remarked, standing in the barn doorway. ‘I thought you’d be sending up smoke signals.’

  ‘I probably will be in a minute. Still, there’s nobody around to complain.’

  Paul glanced back into his workshop, feeling incredibly satisfied with his efforts. The wall plaque was propped up on his workbench, finished. He’d given the surrounding background a kind of jagged edge, although it was sanded as smooth as satin, bringing out the beautiful grain of the oak. By contrast the face in the centre of the oval was pure textured bark. His clever handiwork had brought the features to the fore, so undoubtedly it was a face – not just a vague figment of his imagination.

  He still didn’t like the face. But despite his personal opinions, it was still a pretty neat piece of wood carving. Maybe Juliet would find a buyer for it, after all.

  He’d done enough for one day, so after turning off the heater he closed up the barn and wandered over to lend Sally a hand.

  Her eyes widened. ‘I don’t believe it, there’s still daylight and you’ve stepped away from your carvings. I’m deeply honoured!’

  ‘Cheek!’ said Paul, giving her a playful slap on the rear. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I neglect you?’

  ‘Well …’ she mused, impishly. ‘Anyway, grab a rake or some cutters and make yourself useful.’

  There were plenty of bushes and trees to trim down and he enjoyed the physical exertion. The bonfire was crackling as he dragged over another mound of raggedy dead wood. He laid the twigs and bits of branch carefully onto the fire, not wanting to dowse the flames. Sally was half hidden under a buddleia bush, cutting it back as he placed another stumpy bit of branch into the fire.

  Instantly streaks of blue-green flame shot up from the embers, scorching the hairs on the back of his hands. Filling his nose with the aroma of what he thought was burnt hair. He jumped back. At the same second, he saw something burning in the heart of the fire – the writhing form of a blazing cat.

  ‘Christ!’ he yelled, kicking at the burning wood, scattering bits of smouldering and blazing wood in all directions. He picked up a watering can full of rainwater and threw it over the remnants of the fire.

  Sally came racing over, fear in her face. ‘Paul what is it, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Stay back. Don’t come any closer!’ He leapt over the flames barring her way. She didn’t want to see this. Grabbing a stick, he frantically scraped through the fire, where the hell was it? Not that it could have survived. But where the hell was it?’

 
; ‘Paul, what’s the matter? Tell me!’ she cried in distress.

  He kept on jabbing at the blackened mess of sludge and charcoal. ‘Go in, Sally, just go in.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong.’ She clung onto his arm, trying to stem his desperate probing among the fire’s remains.

  It wasn’t there. Confused, he examined the bits of bonfire he’d scattered around which were still burning. There was nothing but wood, just old smouldering wood. Slowly he sank down onto his haunches, so thankful that Bluebell hadn’t burnt to death. But to his horror, he suddenly remembered another cat, long ago, that did.

  He lied. Unwilling to let Sally even imagine Bluebell in the flames, let alone admit to what he’d just remembered from his past, Paul lied to her.

  ‘I thought I saw a hedgehog in the fire,’ he said, wiping a film of sweat from his face. ‘I’m sorry I panicked. It was nothing, but just for a minute I thought it was a hedgehog.’

  Sally put her arms around him. ‘God, Paul, you risked burning yourself for a little hedgehog. You’re such a hero … crazy, but still a hero.’

  Some hero. What kind of hero burns a cat on a bonfire?

  To top off a perfect day, Sally received a phone call from Juliet later that afternoon telling her that Mrs Scott, the doctor’s wife had been found dead in her home. She’d fallen down the stairs and broken her neck.

  Sally sat with Bluebell on her lap and cried.

  Paul made a phone call of his own. Owen sounded subdued and Paul guessed that news of the doctor’s wife had affected him badly, too. In a way he felt quite guilty in adding to his troubles.

  ‘Can you get out for half an hour?’ Paul asked him. ‘Meet me at the Crow and Feathers around seven?’

  ‘Well, I guess so. Mind you, the atmosphere over there is going to be a bit grim, what with the news. It’s pretty ghastly what’s happened to the doctor’s wife.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s upset Sally badly, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Seven, yes?’