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

stopped and she could see a shadow in front of her. A silhouette against the darkness. Almost blotting out the little light there was. Moving closer. Until there was nothing but blackness. And she could feel and smell hot breath on her face. Rancid breath.

She awoke.

The monster, the man with the melted face, loomed over her.

She screamed.

* * *

The slow brother knelt on his hands and knees, his head bowed.

In the farmhouse kitchen, by the feet of his mother in her high-backed chair.

Bent forward, her bony hands clasped together tightly, saying the Lord’s Prayer.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done. On earth as it is in heaven.”

She paused, looked up. Clasped his hands in hers.

“Say it with me … let us pray together.”

He joined in, at first slowly and quietly, and then more loudly. He enjoyed the Lord’s Prayer. Could remember every word of it.

“Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

She stumbled, hesitating, as if suddenly choking on her words.

The slow brother kept going, now leading the prayer.

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

“Amen,” the old woman said once and then again, “amen.”

She looked at the slow brother. Nodded. Eyes full of tears.

“Forgive us,” she whispered. Urgently. “Deliver us from evil.”

The old woman leaned forward, struggling to put her arms around her son. He sat there quietly, uncomfortable with her unexpected touch and not moving, even as she rested her head against his in an awkward embrace. He felt her crying. Did not know what to do.

He thought instead about the young woman in the barn who had slept for so long and had woken up as he bent towards her. He was pleased that she was not dead. But did not like it that she screamed. He did not want her to be frightened. He did not like the idea that they might hurt or even kill women. Because they were super-heroes. They killed only bad men. The baddest of all. Men who hurt children. Men like Father.

He did not like to think about Father and what he had done. What he had made them do. He tried very hard to forget. But sometimes he could not.

It was why he did not carry the lady into the large barn. It was where Father would take them from time to time. Sometimes him on his own. More often his brother. Now and then the two of them together.

He felt the old woman stroking him.

Her hands across his back and shoulders.

He kept as still as he could.

He had put the lady in the small barn, a warm and comfortable place. Found some rope and twine from another outbuilding to tie her hands and her feet. Tightly so that they were secure but would not hurt.

Knew that he must not let her go. That he had to keep her safe. Until his brother got back. He would decide what they should do. But he would not let his brother hurt her. They would keep her there. Look after her.

He thought, perhaps she might become a friend. A sister to them. A daughter to Mother. He would like that. He had always wanted a sister. He did not know how this would come about, but he hoped that it would.

He felt his mother close to him.

Her face almost touching his.

He felt her sweet, sickly-smelling breath on his cheek.

After the lady had screamed, he had stopped her and then gone back towards the outbuilding with the cesspit to get the shovel. To pretend to Mother. So she would not know. That the lady was alive. As he opened the outhouse door to pick up the shovel, he looked over and could see Mother sitting by the kitchen window of the farmhouse, watching him.

He lifted the shovel up to show her. She nodded. He then went towards the farmhouse and into the kitchen to go upstairs to get the old gun from the cupboard on the landing.

She barely looked up from her chair by the window as he came in. She was lost in thought. As he came back down, tucking the gun into his pocket, she turned slightly and nodded at him again and smiled a little. She looked sad. It made him feel sad too.

“Do not worry, Mother,” he had said. “Your best boys are doing good work.”

She went to say something to him, but then stopped and looked out of the window, keeping watch. “You’re a good boy,” she said finally, as he waited there. “Always be a good boy for your poor old mother … come … come and sit with me and pray.”

And now he wished he had not.

Because mother was holding him, embracing him, their faces, their mouths, almost touching.

It did not feel right.

He looked at her wet dripping mouth and did not like it.

* * *

Carrie knew where she was now. And what was going on. That she had wet herself. Not that that really mattered, all things considered. She was in an old barn. Her arms and legs tied together. Strapped to some sort of wooden post, part of the wall. She’d been put there by the man with the melted face. The brother of The Scribbler. To be killed by the man with the melted face. Or kept alive until The Scribbler returned. For him to do whatever he wanted with her. She did not know which.

Either way, she thought she was almost certainly going to die some time soon.

And that made her angry. Mostly with herself. That she’d been so stupid as to walk into the farmhouse.

And with Gayther, too. She had let herself be swept up by his outrage and gung-ho attitude.

When she had woken from her dream and screamed, the man with the melted face had clamped his hand over her