Death of the soul

The morning was cold and a sharp frost clung to everything like the iced up inside of a freezer cabinet. He pulled his jacket tighter as he awoke from a fitful sleep. He was cold. He looked at his watch; it was seven AM. Dawn would soon by creeping in like an uninvited guest at a party who moves stealthily and is only with gradual confidence able to begin to relax and reveal their presence. The early morning sky was clear and filled with the sparkle of thousands of stars. It would soon be blue as colour filtered into the black and grey shadows of the night to herald what promised to be a crisp bright day. The frost would soon be melted and would have evaporated by mid morning.  For an instant he forgot the horror that had brought him to this place. The prospect of the dawn sky, clean and unsullied was a stark contrast to the bloody evil that had brought him here. For a moment he felt full of hope for a new dawn, even smiling quietly to himself before the strike of the hammer of recall smashed away his fantasy.  He remembered the quaint little hamlet, the pub, the cottage. He remembered the adrenaline rush stimulated by a fear of discovery, mixed with abject anger and a desire for it all to be ended. He could see the shadowy figures and hear their laughter and wet footfalls in the driving rain and tugging wind. He relived the skulking shadows of his chosen refuge and the ease with which they walked into his ‘killing zone". He could almost feel and sense the give of flesh to cold sharp metal, the rip of sinew, the warm sweet aroma of hot blood, which bathed his hands and splashed his cheeks and clothing. He could see her eyes, the disbelief as she strained in the darkness to understand, and the look of realisation as the blade parted her once coveted skin to force its way, uninvited, raping repeatedly at her vital organs. As he travelled to full wakefulness, he suddenly realised the dream was no dream and he felt revulsion for his slashing butchery in the sleepy Yorkshire village.

 

He was alert now. Thoughts of discovery and of brutal capture, trial and imprisonment flooded his head. He tried to avoid the tide that threatened to overwhelm him and sweep him into blind panic. He tried to leap over the waves of horrific memories that crashed upon his mind with insane fury. The dog broke the spell, sniffing around the car as it strained to the length of its extending lead, dragging its middle aged owner and barking two short barks before it could be reeled in again.

 

Peter Frith loved taking morning and evening walks.  It got him out of the house; away from Sylvia his wife of 35 years.  Not that he wished to be away from his Yorkshire born wife.  It simply gave them more opportunity for distance from one another during the humdrum routine of normal everyday retired life. Peter didn’t sleep well these days and as a consequence he preferred to be up with the lark as Sylvia described it.  She on the other hand liked nothing better than to enjoy a long luscious lay in bed.  So it suited them both that Peter would get out of the double divan at around 5.45 am go down to the kitchen and listen to the Farming programme and the Six O’clock News followed by ‘Today’ on Radio 4, while supping his first cup of tea of the day.  He particularly looked forward to ‘Today’ if John Humphreys and James Nautie were on. Nautie reminded him of the dead Labour party leader John Smith. The only excuse, as he put it to Sylvia more than once, for ever moving his vote from the Conservatives. He could have trusted Smith. Not like that smooth, shallow Blair fellow with his phalanx of cronies. He would then collect the single pint of full cream milk from the doorstep. He had stopped drinking semi-skimmed shortly after his sixty-first birthday when he had decided to dispense with the myriad of health warnings and do as he pleased. He always glanced up and down the street to check all was well before pulling the Times from the ferocious sprung jaws of the highly polished heavy brass letterbox.  Then he would settle down on the stool by the breakfast bar with his tea and the soothing sound of the Humpreys and Nautie double act.  At seven forty-five he would walk the dog and at eight-thirty precisely he would take a cup of tea, with two sugars, and the paper and any post up to Sylvia. He had followed the same routine each morning since before retiring from his job as Director of Finance at a medium size haulage firm in Doncaster.  The difference being that he took his time more and didn’t collect the packed lunch, that Sylvia had made the night before, from the Electrolux fridge in the corner of the neatly fitted kitchen.  And he didn’t kiss his wife on the cheek she proffered, ease the reliable low mileage Volvo 343 from the detached double garage and head for the office just after the eight-forty. 

 

Life was much more sedate now. Sylvia had been a midwife, working for the local NHS trust, covering a patch that included the village where their 1980’s built, 3 bed, stone, detached home was.  She was well known in the village and surrounding hamlets, and was seen as the archetypal midwife; firm but caring, starched but soft.  There when needed and in control.  She had lost count of the number of babies she had delivered.  She missed the work, the contact with patients, the tension of being on the knife-edge between life and death and the flood of emotion and relief when a healthy infant finally arrived in the world.  She had given up her uniform on retirement but she still commanded the respect of many in the local community.

 

He had pulled Snippit away from the car with its misted up windows. He had seen the vehicle as soon as he came out of his front door and turned down the street towards the lane; the lane where he exercised the short legged, short arsed excuse for a dog as he called it, each morning and each evening. He had noted that it faced Bernie and Henry’s house. It struck him as strange as Holly had not lived at home for some time now and gone were the days of boyfriends and cars sitting late at night with the engine purring to keep the occupants warm.

 

He kept the dog on its leash until they reached the lane where he let it run free. Its short legs would not carry it far and, in any case, the dog was so soft and afraid that it seldom strayed away from his or his wife Sylvia's side. There would be no traffic along the lane until much later in the morning so it was safe to let the dog have its head for a short time. He felt ill at ease about the parked car with its unidentified occupant. Something told him it was a single male and he didn’t question his assumption. He felt wary so cut short his walk. On his return from the lane he felt a sense of foreboding as he passed the vehicle and headed quickly up his drive and through the front door of his detached house, closing it firmly behind him.

 

His wife was in the shower. She would sometimes shower and get back into bed to await her fist cup of tea of the day brought to her by her husband when he returned home from walking the dog.  He could hear the hiss of the rose spray and the sound of her singing as he took the lead from around the dog’s neck and hung it on the coat-peg in the warm hallway.  He pulled off his outdoor shoes and climbed the stairs to the front bedroom where he and his wife slept. He walked cautiously to the window overlooking the drive and the street. The car was parked opposite his house facing up the street towards the end of the cul-de-sac. He had a commanding view of the vehicle but was cautious about being spotted by the mystery occupant.  He watched and noted the time.