during the attack upon Ellen in the alley.
The figures advanced. I squeezed my eyes shut but still they came toward me. The night watchman brandished a club, and the hooded figure drew back her sleeves with skeletal hands. I ravaged my throat with silent screams. The hooded figure pushed back her hood. My mind imploded at the sight of the naked skull, and the fires of vengeance burning deep inside the empty eye sockets.
* * *
Inspector Abbott scanned the report one last time. The body of Edward Bonneville had been pulled from the river, and the coroner recorded a verdict of suicide—believed to be prompted by guilt. The inspector frowned as he read of the mysterious bruising around Edward’s head and shoulders, apparently caused by some form of heavy blunt instrument. The vocal chords were tattered, and bite marks were found around his mouth.
The inspector stood and threw the report in the fire. He placed his mother’s rosary in his top pocket, and left a new report on his desk, one which made no mention of bruises and bite marks.
This latest story was the final straw. It was time to pay a visit to Redcross Street.
Burning
Rayne Hall
Supper was bangers and mash with mushy peas. Mum had promised me the glossy calendar photo for November—lambs frolicking around Camber Castle—but only if I ate up every meal this month. I disliked greasy bangers, I despised mash, and I hated mushy peas, but I wanted that picture, and it was only the ninth. Half-listening to my parents’ grown-up talk about the need for a new church, I stirred the peas into the mash. Instead of becoming more appetizing, the meal now looked like a vomit puddle around dog turds.
Pa’s knife sliced a banger; fat spurted. His face shone with enjoyment. My brother Darren stuffed his mouth with mushy peas and smiled as if he liked the taste, which I knew he didn’t. I wondered if Mum had promised him the picture, too.
Mum patted her freshly permed hair. “It’s almost night.” She stood up to pull the kitchen curtains against the approaching darkness, the way she always did during supper. This time she paused. “There’s a lot of smoke. It looks like something’s burning down by the old harbour. It glows. Holy Mother of Jesus, something’s burning proper. It could be the Eversons’ shop.”
Standing on my toes, I peered out of the window. My breath fogged the cold glass. With the sleeve of my jumper, I wiped a patch clear, saw dark smoke spiralling toward the empty sky. A light glowed a half-mile from our house, like an orange-coloured glimpse of hell.
Pa put his fork down. “I’ll go down the road and watch.”
“Is it wise to get involved with this?” Uncertainty quavered in Mum’s voice.
“I’m not involved.” He stood up and took his grey hat and winter coat from the clothes hook on the door.
“Can I come?” Darren asked through a mouth full of blackened sauerkraut. “I’ve finished my supper.”
Pa was already tying a grey shawl around his neck. “Yes, you can come, son.” He paused, pointing his chin at me. “I’ll take the girl, too.”
Frightened by what I’d seen out of the window, I tried to protest. “I don’t want to go. Please…”
An angry glance from Pa shut me up. His hard hand pulled me away from the table. “You’ll come.”
Within moments, Mum had bundled me into my anorak, a thick knitted shawl and a woollen hat. “Stay with Pa, don’t catch a cold, and don’t talk to anyone.”
Darren grabbed his superman jacket and cap and ran down the stairs, and I followed. At least I had escaped from the mushy peas.
Pa forced me into the black metal seat on the bar of his bicycle, so that I was locked between his body, his arms and the handlebar. At seven, I was really too old to travel in the child seat, but he seemed to like holding me captive, and I did not dare suggest I ride behind him on the luggage rack. Darren followed on his own bike.
A few minutes later, we reached the
The figures advanced. I squeezed my eyes shut but still they came toward me. The night watchman brandished a club, and the hooded figure drew back her sleeves with skeletal hands. I ravaged my throat with silent screams. The hooded figure pushed back her hood. My mind imploded at the sight of the naked skull, and the fires of vengeance burning deep inside the empty eye sockets.
* * *
Inspector Abbott scanned the report one last time. The body of Edward Bonneville had been pulled from the river, and the coroner recorded a verdict of suicide—believed to be prompted by guilt. The inspector frowned as he read of the mysterious bruising around Edward’s head and shoulders, apparently caused by some form of heavy blunt instrument. The vocal chords were tattered, and bite marks were found around his mouth.
The inspector stood and threw the report in the fire. He placed his mother’s rosary in his top pocket, and left a new report on his desk, one which made no mention of bruises and bite marks.
This latest story was the final straw. It was time to pay a visit to Redcross Street.
Burning
Rayne Hall
Supper was bangers and mash with mushy peas. Mum had promised me the glossy calendar photo for November—lambs frolicking around Camber Castle—but only if I ate up every meal this month. I disliked greasy bangers, I despised mash, and I hated mushy peas, but I wanted that picture, and it was only the ninth. Half-listening to my parents’ grown-up talk about the need for a new church, I stirred the peas into the mash. Instead of becoming more appetizing, the meal now looked like a vomit puddle around dog turds.
Pa’s knife sliced a banger; fat spurted. His face shone with enjoyment. My brother Darren stuffed his mouth with mushy peas and smiled as if he liked the taste, which I knew he didn’t. I wondered if Mum had promised him the picture, too.
Mum patted her freshly permed hair. “It’s almost night.” She stood up to pull the kitchen curtains against the approaching darkness, the way she always did during supper. This time she paused. “There’s a lot of smoke. It looks like something’s burning down by the old harbour. It glows. Holy Mother of Jesus, something’s burning proper. It could be the Eversons’ shop.”
Standing on my toes, I peered out of the window. My breath fogged the cold glass. With the sleeve of my jumper, I wiped a patch clear, saw dark smoke spiralling toward the empty sky. A light glowed a half-mile from our house, like an orange-coloured glimpse of hell.
Pa put his fork down. “I’ll go down the road and watch.”
“Is it wise to get involved with this?” Uncertainty quavered in Mum’s voice.
“I’m not involved.” He stood up and took his grey hat and winter coat from the clothes hook on the door.
“Can I come?” Darren asked through a mouth full of blackened sauerkraut. “I’ve finished my supper.”
Pa was already tying a grey shawl around his neck. “Yes, you can come, son.” He paused, pointing his chin at me. “I’ll take the girl, too.”
Frightened by what I’d seen out of the window, I tried to protest. “I don’t want to go. Please…”
An angry glance from Pa shut me up. His hard hand pulled me away from the table. “You’ll come.”
Within moments, Mum had bundled me into my anorak, a thick knitted shawl and a woollen hat. “Stay with Pa, don’t catch a cold, and don’t talk to anyone.”
Darren grabbed his superman jacket and cap and ran down the stairs, and I followed. At least I had escaped from the mushy peas.
Pa forced me into the black metal seat on the bar of his bicycle, so that I was locked between his body, his arms and the handlebar. At seven, I was really too old to travel in the child seat, but he seemed to like holding me captive, and I did not dare suggest I ride behind him on the luggage rack. Darren followed on his own bike.
A few minutes later, we reached the
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