Crone Page 2

  Two

  Mikey

  Mike leant against the old wooden beam, holding a pool cue lightly in his hands. His head was buzzing. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but it reminded him that he had drunk enough beer for now, tomorrow being a work day.

  Fraser racked the balls up again, but it was winner-stays-on and Mike had lost, so he guessed it was his round. He returned his cue to the wooden rack and shouldered his way through the crowd to the bar. Last one, he promised.

  It was busy for a Thursday and he had to wait, but he was an easy-going kind of guy and, besides, he was standing next to Maddie Ledden. He’d known her at school—all the boys had known Maddie. She had boasted Abbotts Cromleigh’s greatest cleavage even at fifteen years of age. Now they were all approaching their early-twenties and Maddie had two kids, but her breasts were still a joy to behold. Mike tried not to leer and smiled warmly down at Maddie, while she adjusted her top so that he could get a better view.

  “Looking good, Maddie, really … swell.”

  Maddie giggled. “You should come and see me sometime Mikey. It’s been an age.”

  “Yeah, I should.” Mike recalled the times he had buried his face in Maddie’s magnificent chest and smiled. “Who are you with tonight?”

  “The usual crew, you know,” Maddie gestured over to a table. Mike recognised many faces from school.

  He nodded. “Good stuff. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No I’m fine thanks. Let’s take a rain check, huh?”

  “Sure.” Mike put his arm around Maddie and hugged her, his fingers accidentally brushing her right breast. She laughed, winked, and twisted from his grip, picking up her drinks and sashaying back to her table, knowing full well he was watching.

  Mike collected his drinks and returned to the pool tables at the rear of the pub but as he did so he felt his skin prickle and crawl. The feeling began on his scalp and worked steadily down his spinal column to his thighs. He shivered.

  “You cold mate?” asked Fraser, taking his pint of ale and glumly watching his girlfriend Sally make mincemeat of his game.

  “Nah. Just tired. Need to get going really. Due on site tomorrow by eight.” Mike stroked his forearm with the hand that wasn’t clutching his beer, trying to make the goose pimples disappear.

  Fraser nodded. ‘Love Shack’ by the B52s came on the jukebox, and there was a roar of approval from the front of the pub. Fraser looked up, and someone at the door caught Fraser’s eye. He nudged Mike.

  Mike followed Fraser’s gaze. A beautiful stranger posed in the doorway, her gaze raking across the clientele and fixing on Mike. Mike shivered again. The sensation of fingers digging around in his head made his bowels churn and his heart beat faster. For one moment he felt violated, and yet the feeling was quickly gone, replaced instead by a warm glow of desire.

  The woman regarded him steadily, an open invitation. Next to Mike, Fraser cleared his throat. “I think she likes you, mate.”

  Mike remained where he was; his mouth open; his mind sluggish. Fraser nudged him with his elbow and hissed, “Go on! Christ! She’s practically begging you to go over and say hello. Who is she anyway?”

  Confused, Mike shook his head. He didn’t recognise her. She was stunning. Long hair as black as a raven’s wing. His ultimate fantasy. Pretty gothic looking, in a bottle green dress, velvet—not that he knew about such things—moulded to her curves. Her dark eyes glowed like the embers of a long burning fire.

  “Never seen her before.” Mike’s throat seemed a little constricted; his voice husky.

  The woman smiled. Mike cleared his throat.

  “Go on!” ordered Fraser frantically, and Mike moved obediently away. “Make sure you bring her over here and introduce me, you bastard!” Fraser shot after him.

  Up close, she was perfect. Flawless. Her alabaster skin was smooth and pale, her lips plump and moist, naturally a dark pink. Her eyes, now that he was close enough to see them, were a deep emerald green with flecks of brown around the pupils, outlined by long, fluffy eyelashes. She was the ultimate airbrushed fantasy, and she quite took Mike’s breath away.

  He stammered out a greeting. “I’m Mike.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “You do? What’s your name? Are you from around here?”

  “My name is Aefre. And yes, I come from these parts. I’ve lived here all my life.”

  Mike wondered how old she was. Maybe thirty or so. He couldn’t really tell.

  “Ether? Well I’m pleased to meet you. Can I buy you a drink?”

  Aefre studied the bar, the optics, and the gaily coloured drinks in bottles. She shook her head and smiled widely at Mike, displaying white, even teeth. “No. It’s not a drink I’m looking for.”

  The smile knocked Mike’s socks off.

  Aefre took Mike’s arm. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “Let’s go.”

  *

  In the soft light of Mike’s bedroom, he found he could not quite believe his luck. Here was the most beautiful of women. She asked no questions and demanded nothing of him. Mike was dazzled by her beauty. Her skin was as soft as a new-born’s, her limbs long and supple. Her touch, at first tentative as she explored his body, had become more confident and self-assured. She was a passionate woman. Her hair tickled his chest when she straddled him, and he was cocooned in a bubble of desire.

  “Why me?” he breathed as she moved with him.

  In answer, Aefre bowed her head to his face, her eyes glowing, alive with need. She bent down to him, as though for a kiss, but instead started to inhale deeply, her mouth closing around his. His eyes widened as the breath was drawn from his body.

  When she had emptied the air from his lungs, she began drawing out his soul.

  *

  The local papers were awash with the news of Mikey’s death, and he was mentioned on the local news at 6.30 pm. I perched at my kitchen table thinking about the Mikey I’d known. He’d been in the same class at primary school as Max, a sweet lad, polite when he came to birthday parties at our house. He had been good with his hands, loved to build things. The Legos would be scattered across Max’s bedroom floor, and complicated and colourful structures displayed on the windowsill. The newspaper stated that Mike was employed at Buskin’s, a local construction firm. The trade he had chosen was so apt.

  His mum would be devastated.

  I should send her a card. What was her name? I ferreted around in my brain trying to remember but drew a blank. I’d kept all of my condolence cards, along with other mementos to my son in a box under the stairs and located them easily enough. I flicked through but quickly became frustrated with the task and impatiently set the thick pile to one side. They teetered on the table before one escaped from the pile, slipping to the floor. I stooped to pick it up. The message inside simply read, Heather, so sorry to hear about the loss of Max. He was a good and gentle boy and Michael has memories of fun times at your house. In our hearts always, Sarah, Russ, Michael, Lewis, and Siobhan.

  *

  Mike’s funeral was delayed for a few weeks while the coroner and the police tried to establish the facts of his death, although the papers lost interest once there appeared to be no scandal or wrongdoing and moved on to the local MP’s expenses row instead.

  The day of the funeral was dismal. Drizzle dropped relentlessly from a heavy, grey sky. I approved. No-one should be buried on a beautiful day when skies are blue and the sun warm. It’s only fitting that the weather reflects the miserable situation of loss.

  The church was full to bursting with family and friends. Taking a pew at the back, out of the way of those who had a greater claim to Mikey, I found myself struggling to hold it together. Watching the coffin being brought into church, carried solemnly by six young pall bearers, including Mikey’s younger brother Lewis, loss etched on his pale face, was more than I could handle. And so as the coffin was arranged at the front of the church and the pall bearers took their seats, I slipped away to wait for the service to finish.


  I meandered around the small churchyard, until my reverie was interrupted by a tall young man in a dark grey suit, with brand new shoes, the leather stiff and shiny, and no doubt uncomfortable. Visibly distressed, he lent the palms of his hands against the wall a little way from me. I watched him as his face worked and his Adam’s apple gulped. Eventually I could bear it no longer.

  I moved towards him and placed my hand on his back. The tears streamed silently down his face.

  “It’s ok,” I said. “You’re allowed.”

  He erupted. Great heart-rending sobs. He cried and cried. It was a ferocious outpouring of grief, and I wept quietly with him, empathising with the pain of the gangly man in front of me. When eventually he quietened I handed him a tissue from my bag. I had plenty. He blew his nose noisily and wiped his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No, don’t be,” I replied firmly. “It’s better out than in.” I studied his face, vaguely familiar. He was pale skinned, slightly freckly, and blotchy from the crying. “You were a friend of Mikey’s?”

  “Yes. I was with him … the night … the night before …”

  I nodded.

  “I’m Heather Keynes.”

  He nodded down at me, his eyes still full of tears. “I know. You’re Max’s mum. I was at his funeral too. I’m Fraser Gray.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I began, “I don’t remember—”

  He waved my apology away. “He was a popular guy, in his own way. Quiet wasn’t he? Max? Just like Mikey was. Mikey, you know, he wasn’t the big ‘I am’ or anything. Just a fun loving guy. Liked to play pool. Liked a beer. Occasional night out in Elbury. Once in a blue moon to Exeter. He was a simple man.”

  Inside the church the sounds of the first hymn started up. Tears pricked at Fraser’s eyes again. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and found his cigarettes and lighter. He flipped a cigarette out but his hand was shaking and he couldn’t get the lighter to work. I took it off him, cupped my hand around the lighter, flicked until the flame burned and then offered him the light.

  He inhaled deeply. Forced his shoulders back and down before slowly releasing the smoke from his lungs. He offered me one, but I shook my head.

  He indicated the cigarette in his hand. “I’d given up, you know? But what’s the point? Live or die. When your number’s up …” He pulled on the cigarette again and started to relax. “It was funny …” he paused, his eyes glazed over.

  “What was funny?”

  His opaque eyes were tired and confused. “They never found her.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman. Mike met a woman that night, his last night. They left the pub together.”

  “Was she a friend?”

  “No. He’d never seen her before. Neither had I. She was gorgeous. Not from round here. I’d know her.”

  “Who was she then?” I’d never seen a mention of a woman in the papers.

  “I don’t know. He never introduced her. Hell, he only spoke to her for a few minutes and then they left the pub together. Didn’t say goodbye or anything. Next thing I know, he’s dead.”

  “You told the police about her though?”

  “Yeah, yeah. They wanted to talk to her.” He shrugged. “But they couldn’t trace her.”

  “Did anyone else at the pub know her?”

  “No. No-one remembered seeing her.”

  Puzzled I stared at Fraser and ran through what he had told me. “But you saw her?”

  “She was beautiful,” Fraser nodded sagely.

  “You both saw a beautiful woman in the pub and Mikey went to say hello.”

  “My girlfriend was with me, but this woman was only interested in Mikey anyway. Giving him the come-on.”

  “So Mike goes over and he talks to her for a few minutes, and they leave together?”

  “Without so much as a seeya.”

  That did seem odd. “This woman was the last person to see Mike alive, but no-one remembers her or knows where she is to talk to?”

  Fraser sighed. “That’s about the long and the short of it. I’ve not seen her since. No-one has.”

  How odd. “The police have said they don’t think there are any suspicious circumstances about his death,” I pointed out.

  “No, that’s right. But still …”

  Fraser finished his cigarette. He ground it out against the wall. He nodded towards the church door to indicate he was going back in. I smiled and stepped away from him. He slipped quietly back inside.

  I considered what he had said. Fraser was right. The woman was a loose end that made Mike’s last evening and unexplained death just a little untidier. I had to sympathise with Mikey’s mum. Sarah would want to know how Mikey had died, just as I had wanted to know the details about Max.

  But maybe there are no answers in life.

  *

  I spent an hour at the gathering after the funeral, but I needed to get home to Pip. I said my goodbyes to Sarah and donned my coat, hat, and scarf. I considered speaking to Fraser again, but he was immersed in conversation with a group of other young men and women. In the semi-darkness of the function room it was difficult to make out the people he was with. One man, well-hidden in the shadows stared at me as I observed the group. I couldn’t see him properly, but as I made my way to the door I could feel his eyes burning my back. Unnerved, I was glad to get away.

  *

  Margaret had completed her evening routine and it was time to go to bed. She had finished her cocoa and three custard creams, washed the milk pan and her mug, and left them to drain for the morning. Finally, she let Colin, her cat, out. Now it was time to tuck herself in.

  Earlier in the evening the timer on her electric blanket would have automatically switched on so that by the time she made her way upstairs, brushed her teeth, and changed into her nightdress, the bed would be nice and warm. She was thankful that her daughter and son-in-law had bought the new blanket for her. Roy said it was safer than the old ones, and Cathy claimed it was more economical. That was good to know.

  Margaret wheezed into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Out of habit she never let the water run, considering it wasteful. Tap on, tap off. Rinse, spit, done.

  From downstairs she distinctly heard a click. She paused for a moment, listening hard. She didn’t want to negotiate the stairs again.

  A yowl. That silly cat. Must have come back through the cat flap. Margaret hoped he hadn’t brought any little presents with him.

  Out of the corner of her eye Margaret caught a flash as something streaked past the bedroom door. She turned, but whatever it was had disappeared.

  “Colin!” she scolded. “You know you’re not supposed to be in the house at night.” It was half-hearted of her, telling Colin off. Margaret loved her furry companion to bits.

  She rinsed her mouth and swooshed the sink clean carefully. She returned her toothbrush to its little blue pot with a pleasing clink and headed into her bedroom. The room smelled fresh, Margaret liked to sprinkle lavender on her sheets. She undressed, folded her clothes neatly onto a chair, and pulled a plain white cotton nightdress over her head.

  She moved Mr Barnaby, her childhood bear, from his place in the centre of her bed, gave him a hug and a kiss as she had for virtually every day of her eighty-six years and lay him down on Alf’s pillow. If she awoke in the night, there would be something to reach out to and touch. She settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes, feeling cosy and started to doze, until she became aware of a rustling noise in the room with her, and a dank smell.

  “Colin,” she murmured. He shouldn’t be in the bedroom.

  Her body felt leaden, as though something was draining her already depleted reserves of energy. Margaret opened her eyes and for a moment she thought she saw her late husband Alf standing in front of her. She blinked. Lifted her head to have a better look. It was Alf. She tried to reach out to him but found she couldn’t move.

  Alf came closer. He leaned over her, and for a moment she thought he woul
d kiss her. Instead, he sniffed her. Margaret shrank away, confused. “Alf?”

  He lashed out; his long nails raked her face and knocked Mr Barnaby off the bed.

  Margaret panicked. This was not Alf. He was never anything except gentle and kind. He would never hurt her or disrespect her things, including Mr Barnaby, whom he had always tolerated with total sweetness and understanding.

  Margaret tried to scream, but her throat was dry. Her mouth opened and closed in terror as Alf climbed onto the bed. He pulled the bedclothes roughly down from her chest and stared down at her bony figure in its prim nightdress.

  Margaret shrank back in fear, any humiliation quickly replaced by terror. Her insides turned to ice, her heart began to beat hard in her chest, and her breathing hastened.

  Alf climbed over her, straddled her, and stared down into her eyes. His weight alone was enough to suffocate the frail Margaret, and she feebly tried to push him off. His lips parted, and he bent his head to her. Instead of a kiss, he breathed in.

  Margaret was rigid underneath Alf, her arms taut, but as the kiss went on, her body relaxed, her heart rate started to slow, and her mouth opened slackly. As he breathed in, she breathed out until there was no air left to exhale. She lay weakly on the bed looking up at someone who couldn’t possibly be her husband. There was no pain, but suddenly she longed for more time. A chance to see her daughter and tell her how special she was and how much she was loved.

  It was a futile last wish. As Alf’s shape shifted and Margaret stared up into the face of a hideous woman, a crone far older than she, her heart stopped, and her body—already deprived of oxygen—began to shut down. Death followed swiftly.

  Colin observed the scene from the corner of the room. His eyes glowed with alarm in the darkness, until he turned tail and raced down the stairs. The crone turned her head to watch him, smiling with grim satisfaction when she heard him tear through the cat flap.

  *

  The strength that Aefre had drawn from Mike could only last so long. Playing sexual games with him had been fun but it depleted her energy, and the shapeshifting always caused rapid drain. Given that she had duped a whole crowd of people in the pub into believing that Mike had left alone, she had a right to feel tired.