Stirred by a cooling breeze, the shoots of the weeping willow
swept gracefully over the grass, shiny now with premature dew. The perfume of
night scented stock drifted in the open window. In the distance an owl hooted,
an eerie sound, like the anguished cry of a human babe. Brian was oblivious to
it all. He sat in his shirtsleeves watching the stars, an undiluted Famous
Grouse at his side. re-examining the morning's episode when Audrey talked to
him and Chris.
He pictured again her distraught face as she endeavoured to
describe the agony of the atrocious calls, the moist lashes when she questioned
why she was being persecuted, her sobs when she spoke of the fierce need to
shower away the filth. Even in a state of desolation she radiated the kind of
glow that other women spent fortunes trying to achieve, the tan coloured
tracksuit in complete harmony with her hair. Furiously, he dug his nails in his
palms, wanting desperately to annihilate the villain who had caused her such
grief.
Matthew had looked ready to strike Chris when he proposed
that Audrey contrived to meet the man, explaining that one of them would tail
behind and eventually apprehend. Audrey was as aghast as if they had
recommended an immoral assignation, but the reason for the vehement refusal,
that the whole village would find out, was ludicrous. She seemed strangely
defiant when she added that she might know him. Chris's bushy brows shot up at
that and he scrutinised Brian as if to question why she was there. Brian
conveyed his lack of understanding by a shrug of the shoulders.
Brian approved of Matthew's protectiveness towards his
mother. He was a bit like Malcolm in that regard: mindful of obligations,
warm-hearted, deeply loyal. Audrey would miss him when he left, and someone
else would have to support her through the present ordeal. A mean thought
introduced itself: maybe this was the break he'd been waiting for, a
not-to-be-missed chance to renew their alliance.
Grabbing the whisky bottle, he replenished his drink. The
remaining embers of Paddy Finnigan's bonfire crackled into the night. He
sniffed the lingering, anticipatory smell of burning wood and was reminded of
bonfire nights, chestnuts and baked potatoes, and the passion which escalated
with every segment of food he and Audrey fed to each other.
Attracted by a shadowy movement in next door's garden, Brian
leaned out. He saw Gladys gazing at the sky as if she was fascinated by
astronomy. Scouring the universe for tranquillity, he wouldn't wonder. It was
clear earlier in the day that she was strained, presumably having burnt herself
out in an effort to comfort Audrey, whose spirits showed no sign of lifting. It
occurred to him that if Gladys was powerless to help, any assistance he offered
would be useless … even supposing it was accepted. A mesmerising tail of smoke
wafted over the privet. It resembled the unformed genie of the lamp, that
charmed spectre capable of granting wishes. How contented he would be if a
sympathetic spirit sanctioned one of his.
After closing the window he turned his back on the night and
pondered the interview again. Still perplexed about Audrey's indignation, he
shook his head. Because the police could do nothing, Chris had ended the
discussion with the suggestion that she contact the phone company though Brian
had the distinct impression it was a step she did not want to take.
Yawning with fatigue, he solemnly checked the contents of his
glass, emptied the bottle, then went to the cupboard for another. There was
only vodka left. Since he was too far into the drinking bout to care he tossed
off three full glasses.
*******
The room reeled but he was still capable of sporadic flashes
of intelligent thought, though he couldn't remember why he had craved the
luxury of insensibility in the first place. Was it something to do with Audrey?
Words whizzed around his brain: Dear, dear Audrey. Abruptly, he surfaced from
the chair and flung the glass to the floor. It crunched beneath his feet as he
crashed his way to the stairs. 'To hell with everything,' he growled, stumbling
up on all fours.
He undressed, letting the clothes lie where they dropped. He
sat naked on the bed, one leg sprawled over the edge, the other propped against
a pillow. He seized Audrey's photo and surveyed it with bleary eyes, then began
tapping the glass. 'I can't be doin' with this upset,' he said. 'You an' me
gotta have li'l chat.' Hugging the cold frame against his insignificant patch
of curly grey chest hair, he disappeared under the quilt and wept.
(to be continued)
nice...i like the zoom in on him...how frustrated and confused, but i am not discounting it may be him as well...ha...
ReplyDeleteI'm saying nothing, Brian... Smiles.
DeleteValerie, you TRULY have a talent for leaving us in utter suspense at the end of your chapters!!!!
ReplyDeleteThat last paragraph had me going, "Ooooooooooo!"
As Brian shared, I'm not discounting it might be him as well!
GREAT chapter, dear lady. Eagerly anticipating the next!
HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU!
X
Heehee, Ron, like I said to Brian.... my mouth is sealed :0)
ReplyDeleteShort chapter but quite a read...
ReplyDeletewaiting on the next one as usual...
Love the header....
Happy New Year Val !
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
ReplyDeleteComing back to reading your chapter. Hubby is reading a book on Thomas Jefferson and loves to tell me about it, which I enjoy but.....can't concentrate on your chapter yet. Tomorrow........can't wait!!! Happy New Year Valerie!
ReplyDeleteI loved the way you set up the atmosphere in the first paragraph. Gave me chills...and the chills kept coming as I wrapped up this piece. Brilliant bit 'o writing here, my dear!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Herman. I think I must have been in poetic mood when I wrote this chapter.
ReplyDeleteHello Valerie, I am back now the house is quiet. I loved reading this. Looking forward to the next chapter. Have you always been a writer? I was wondering when you started weaving such interesting tales.
ReplyDeleteHi Denise, thanks for popping back for a read. To answer your question. you may remember this post:
ReplyDeletehttp://allsortsforallsorts.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/15-minutes-of-fame.html
The article contained therein explains all.