The Scribbler by Iain Maitland (life changing books txt) 📕

He wondered, suddenly, whether his brother had had any trouble. The lady had said she was with a man and a dog. But he did not know if that were so. He did not think a lady would lie about something like that, but he remembered that mother had thought it might not be true. It may, he thought, have been what was it, a little white lie. Yes, that was it. Not a proper lie. Not a bad thing to say. Not properly bad.

He wondered a moment or two longer. Then realised that there had been no gunshots. If there had been a man and a dog there would have been shots. At least two. One for the man and one for the dog. His brother was a good shot. Not as good as him. But he was fast and he was accurate and he would have needed only two shots.

One to the man’s head. And then the other to the dog’s. He did not really care about the man. But he felt sorry for the dog and wondered what type it was. They had had a Jack Russell when they were boys, but Father had made them kill it when it got old. “Too old and too useless,” Father had said.

Take it outside and shoot it. One kill. The other watch and bury it. Toughen you up. Make men of you. Proper men. That’s what Father had said. He had cried tears of anger. His brother, his face set, had shot the dog and helped him bury it. The dog was just ‘dog’, it never had a proper name. Father had said it was soft to give a dog a name. A dog was just a dog, that is all. He would have liked to have given the dog a name. He would have called it Bernard. When it was a puppy it looked like a Saint Bernard.

He thought he had better hurry. That his brother would have parked the lady’s car by now, hidden away in the outhouse with the cesspit. Cleaning it over. Making sure he had not left any fingerprints anywhere. His brother always wore gloves for this sort of thing. Because of the fingerprints. He would then be striding up to make sure the lady was buried properly. Somewhere safe. Where she would not be found. Somewhere proper, though. Then they’d have to go back to the farmhouse and see what Mother had to say and what she would tell them to do next.

He reached for Carrie, sliding his arms beneath her.

Lifting her up as he got unsteadily to his feet.

Her head lolled back and, suddenly, she groaned.

* * *

The old woman was down on her knees scrubbing the floor when she heard the kitchen door creaking open.

“Sonky?” she said, glancing up. “Oh, it’s you,” she added, looking at the smart brother. “Good.”

“You don’t need to do that, Mother, I’ll do it.” He reached to help her up, taking the brush from her hand. “You sit down.”

She made her way painfully to the high-backed chair and sat back in it. She wiped her hands absently on the armrests, distracted by the horror of what was happening around her.

“We need to clean this place,” she said, her voice cracking. “From where she came in the door to where she stood to where she fell.” The old woman thought for a moment. “Fingerprints on the door handle … on that chair … hair, skin, blood … where she fell.”

“I know, Mother, I know,” he answered. “I’ll finish cleaning the floor and then I’ll wipe …”

“There’s some Dettol under the sink,” she added. “Wipe everything over with that. Then pour the dirty water away in the outside drain and burn the cloths round the back.”

She watched as he reached into the cupboard.

Cloths. Dettol. Some sort of antiseptic spray. Sponges.

He set about cleaning everything thoroughly.

“When you’ve done that, go up and find Sonky, make sure he’s done a proper job of it … that he’s buried her somewhere no one will …” She stopped, close to choking on her words, and then was silent.

“I’ve moved the car into the outhouse; there was no man or dog,” he said matter-of-factly as he continued cleaning.

“I put my gloves on and wiped the seat and the pedals afterwards. I did it carefully and thoroughly,” he added.

“It’s now in the outhouse and I’ve locked and bolted the doors.” He stood up and arched his back.

“Eighty-four years I’ve lived here,” the old woman said, finally. “Eighty-four years. I’ve buried my father, God rest his blessed soul. And my mother with her long, beautiful hair. And two dear brothers. Wallace and Charles. Good boys they were, decent … your father. May God have mercy … and on yours, both of you, for all that you have done.”

He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Mother. Truly I am. I never meant to—”

“All that you have done,” she interrupted, her voice rising, “you have bought it all to my door, to my home … and … suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll not see my days out here. Not now.”

He nodded his head. “It will be all right, Mother, I promise. You just have to help us to get through this.”

She sighed and then shook her head sorrowfully.

“Your father, well …” she shrugged, as if to say ‘well, I understand, he was a monster’. “But the rest. You’re not … neither of you … you’re not normal. Like father, like son. God help me, what have I done to deserve this …”

He shook his head. “Don’t, Mother, don’t. Please. I promise this is the end of it. Please help us.”

“I have been thinking. You must move the car. It’s not safe here. If they come looking. Take it far away and hide it somewhere. Deep in the forest. Do