Smith



  SMITH

  BY S.K. GILES

 

  ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings

  Hast thou established strength

  Because of thine adversaries,

  That thou mightest still the enemy

  And the avenger.’

  PSALMS 8.2.

 

  ONE

  REDEEMED

  Thursday 24 December 2008. York.

  “Where’s my pink shirt?” Martin Willow shouted to his wife.

  “Washed and ironed and in the wardrobe where it usually is,” his wife Wendy replied, “You’re not wearing that one are you? The eighties are long gone.”

  “Found it,” he said, “what was that about the eighties?”

  “Nothing dear. What time did they say we had to be there?”

  “Roxy said six and Frank said seven so I think six thirty should be acceptable.”

  “Why can’t we take Penny?” Frank said, “she normally comes everywhere with us.”

  “Roxy doesn’t like kids,” Wendy replied, “never has done. Penny likes Lauren anyway.”

  Lauren was the Willow’s babysitter; she was one of Frank’s students at the University.

  “Everybody likes Lauren,” Frank said with a smile that Wendy could not see.

  “I don’t like that girl. She’s way too clever. Are you listening to me?”

  “All finished,” Frank said, “yes I’m listening. I’m coming down. Why do you always have to talk to me from the other side of the house? She’s not too clever; she’s a very bright girl that’s all.”

  “Well its five thirty now. Where is she?”

  “She’ll be here. Do you want a drink before we go? I’m having one.”

  “Of course you are. No, I think I’ll try and stay sober at least until the hor d’oevres have been served. Where is that bloody girl?”

  “She’s in her room. She’s reading.”

  “Not Penny you moron, the babysitter.”

  “Charming,” Martin poured himself a drink.

  “What’s that you’re drinking?” Wendy asked.

  “Remy Martin VSOP. One of my students bought it for me. Very smooth.”

  “I won’t ask you her name. You might as well pour me a drop while we’re waiting. Isn’t that your phone? It’s that eighties crap ring tone.”

  “It’s the LoveCats by the Cure. It’s a classic. It must be Lauren.”

  “She’d better not cancel on us now,” Wendy warned.

  She finished her brandy in one large sip.

  As Martin went to find his phone upstairs, Wendy poured herself a generous second glass.

  “Lauren can’t make it,” Martin said from the top of the stairs, “she’s sick.”

  “Marvellous,” Wendy scoffed, “I really do not like that girl. What are we going to do now?”

  “We’ll take Penny with us. She’s very good. Roxy will just have to understand. Do you want to get her ready?”

  “Sometimes, I think the only involvement you ever had in that child was to provide the sperm all those years ago.”

  “What the hell do I know about dressing a seven year old girl? The taxi will be here soon.”

  “Penny,” Wendy shouted up the stairs, “get yourself ready, you’re coming with us,”

  In the middle of the room stood a small Christmas tree. It was sparsely decorated and only three gifts lay underneath. They were wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine. Before Penny was born, Christmas was not something that was celebrated in the Willow household but when she was born Martin and Wendy both agreed on a compromise; they would make a slight effort towards normality.

  “Taxis here,” Martin shouted, “are you two ready?”

  “Almost,” Wendy replied, “do you want to grab a couple of bottles of wine and a bottle of whisky for after the meal? Frank will expect it.”

  “Hurry up. The taxi guy is already charging us Christmas rates.”

  The Taxi driver was Chinese and he was wearing a Santa Claus hat.

  “Where to?” he asked. “Going somewhere nice?”

  “Not really,” Wendy replied, “but it’s a Christmas Eve tradition.” She gave him the address.

  A dreadful feeling came over Martin Willow during the taxi ride. Had he remembered to lock the front door? It was one of his few household duties and he could not remember if he had or not. He dismissed the feeling. We have ample insurance, he thought.

  “Nice music,” Wendy said to the taxi driver.

  He was playing a Beatles song. She did not know the name of the song but she had heard it before; it was something about getting older.

  The evening with Frank and Roxy started off badly even before Martin and Wendy stepped out of the taxi. Martin had given the driver an unnecessarily generous tip and as they walked up the drive, Wendy was already furious.

  “Why do you always have to throw money around after a few drinks?” she demanded.

  “It’s Christmas Eve for Gods sake,” Martin said, “who the hell wants to work on Christmas Eve?”

  “He was Chinese. I don’t think they even celebrate Christmas. And watch your language in front of the child.”

  “The child has a name Wendy.” He emphasised her name and she knew it was time to back off.

  Martin rang the doorbell. Roxy opened the door with a smile which quickly disappeared when she saw Penny standing there.

  “Sorry Rox,” Wendy said, “the babysitter let us down.”

  “Not to worry,” Martin interrupted, “let’s open some wine. I brought a nice single malt too for afterwards. I think Frank will like it.”

  “You’d better come in then,” Roxy said, “it looks like it may rain.”

  “Well hello, hello,” Frank Paxton bellowed as they entered the living room, “and hello to you little lady.”

  He smiled at Penny. Frank did not share Roxy’s dislike of children. Penny smiled back. A rare smile.

  “What’s that you’re reading Penny?” Frank asked.

  Penny never went anywhere without a book in her hand; it was her version of a security blanket.

  “Frank asked you a question Penny,” Wendy said sternly.

  Penny showed him the book but would not let him take it.

  “Ah,” Frank said, “the late great Mrs Blyton. One of her best too, I may add.”

  Penny smiled again.

  “Frank,” Roxy said, “you’d better check on the food. We wouldn’t want it to burn would we?”

  “Okey Dokey,” he replied and danced into the kitchen.

  Penny giggled. Roxy sighed. She hated his childish behaviour sometimes.

  “Martin,” Roxy said, “would you mind opening a couple of bottles of wine? A couple of reds. I’ll stick the white in the fridge for dessert. Frank is cooking his Beef Wellington. Not exactly festive I know but it’s delicious nevertheless.”

  They settled in the dining room while Frank added the finishing touches to the main course. Penny made herself comfortable on the couch in the living room.

  “How’s work going Rox?” Wendy asked politely as she nibbled on a prawn cracker.

  “Great, but terrible, if you know what I mean,” Roxy replied. “They’ve got kids coming in from god knows where who think they can just waltz up and take over. The computer industry is vicious sometimes.”

  Martin emptied a glass of wine in one go.

  “So Roxy”,
he said, “when did this fear of young people start? Was it always there or did it happen when you reached forty?”

  Wendy’s face reddened.

  “Martin”, she gave him her warning look.

  “Sorry Rox,” Wendy said, “Martin thinks that after a few drinks he can be as rude as he likes and no-one will care. It’s his job, I think. He spends too much time around young impressionable people.”

  “It’s ok Wendy,” Roxy insisted, “sometimes I wish I could say exactly what’s on my mind too. Then maybe those kids at work wouldn’t walk all over me.”

  In the living room, Penny was engrossed in the goings on in The Magic Faraway Tree. She was reading slowly as this was the third and final book in the series and she did not want to reach the end too soon.

  “Do you eat steak pie?” Frank asked her.

  She left the land of Secrets behind, looked up and nodded.

  “Good.” He smiled. “We’d better lay another place for you at the table. It’s nearly ready.”

  Penny put the book down on the coffee table and followed Frank to the dining room.

  Frank put the Beef Wellington on the table.

  “Wow Frank,” Wendy said, “this looks delicious.”

  The five of them ate in virtual silence and after the meal when Penny returned to her book, Roxy remarked “It’s difficult to know what to talk about when there’s a seven year old in your company”.

  “What are you talking about?” Martin said.

  “Well, it’s hard to have an adult conversation isn’t it?”

  Wendy had finished a bottle of wine to herself.

  “I hate my name,” she exclaimed.

  Everyone looked at her as if she were insane.

  “I mean come on, Wendy Willow. I sound like one of those fairies in Penny’s stupid books. Wendy Willow, the nymph of the woods.”

  “I’m happy with the nymph of the bedroom,” Martin joked.

  “Seriously Martin. I think that’s why I haven’t been taken seriously for all these years.”

  “Seriously Wendy,” Martin said, “I think you’ve just had a little too much to drink.”

  “No, I mean it. I think if I hadn’t been so besotted with you when we decided to get married, I would have realised that taking your name would affect the rest of my life.”

  “You’re rambling on now dear,” Martin tried to calm things down. “Besides, there are much worse names out there.”

  He looked around for support.

  “I once knew a guy called Victor Winner,” Frank quickly lied, “he was a real loser.” Everybody laughed. Even Wendy found it hard not to smile.

  “More wine anybody?” Frank offered.

  “Open the white in the fridge will you?” Roxy asked, “I just need to see to the Pavlova.”

  “This is divine Rox,” Wendy remarked as she took a forkful of the Pavlova, “You must give me the recipe.”

  “Marks and Spencer, Coppergate Centre,” Roxy chuckled.

  “It’s to die for anyway.”

  “Frank,” Martin said, “look at this beauty. Glenlivet 12 years old. I acquired this from one of my students.”

  “I’ll get some glasses,” Frank said, “do you ladies want some too?”

  “Wine is fine for me,” Wendy said, “I’m suddenly feeling a bit tipsy.”

  She turned to face Martin.

  “What is it you lecture in at University again?” She asked, “Alcohol appreciation 101. And let me guess, another of your female admirers gave you this one. You know what Rox, at this time of year, our drinks cabinet is overflowing with gifts from Martin’s Harem.”

  “I’ll get the glasses,” Frank said as a diversion.

  “What do you lecture in Martin?” Roxy asked.

  “Oh some ology or another,” Wendy said sarcastically, “I’ve given up remembering.”

  Martin tried to stay calm. “I have a PHD in Criminology,” he said, “but I also dabble in Psychology and Sociology when I feel the need for something lighter.”

  “Very interesting,” Frank said in his best German Gestapo interrogation voice, “So you have ze means up here,” he pointed to his head, “to carry out ze perfect murder. What do you say to zat?”

  Wendy laughed.

  “Martin couldn’t kill a fly,” she said, “he puts spiders outside rather than kill them.”

  “It’s those types you have to watch,” Roxy argued, “the meek and mild college professor types; the bookish ones. They’re the ones that usually turn into serial killers; I’ve read a book about it.”

  “Oh Rox,” Wendy said with a smile, “you’ve got some imagination there. Anyway, I sometimes wished I’d married an accountant like you did.”

  She regretted saying it immediately.

  “Frank and I aren’t married.” Roxy assumed an air of defence.

  “Sorry Rox,” Wendy said, “I sometimes forget. It’s just you’ve been together for so long you might as well be.”

  “We never saw the need,” Frank said, “we don’t have any kids and we’re quite happy the way things are without some legal piece of paper to say so.”

  “I need a pee,” Martin changed the subject, “I assume the toilet is still in the same place?”

  “Martin,” Wendy said. She was blushing.

  Roxy laughed. “I may be a tad obsessive with moving furniture around,” she said, “but even I can’t move a toilet. You know where it is.”

  When Martin had finished, he checked on Penny. She still held her book but she was fast asleep. He carefully removed the book from her fingertips and placed it on the coffee table. She only had a few chapters left to read. He put a cushion under her head and gently kissed her on the forehead. She smiled a sleepy smile.

  “Penny’s asleep,” Martin announced as he sat down again.

  “What time is it?” Wendy asked.

  “Half ten,” Martin replied, “What time is the taxi driver due back?”

  “Midnight. There’s no rush.”

  “Plenty of time for more whisky then.” Frank added. His face was flushed. “I’ve got something special that will compliment the single malt perfectly.”

  He opened a cupboard and produced two fat cigars.

  “Cuban,” he said proudly, “a client of mine gave them to me as a token of appreciation.”

  “We won’t ask what you did for him,” Roxy said.

  Frank handed a cigar to Martin.

  “Do we have any ashtrays?” he asked Roxy, “you keep moving things and throwing things out. I don’t know what we own anymore.”

  “There’s one in the kitchen,” Roxy replied, “You’re not going to smoke those things in here are you?”

  “Oh come on Rox,” Wendy insisted, “It’s Christmas and besides, I quite like the smell of a good cigar.”

  Frank put an ashtray and a box of matches on the table.

  “Watch this,” Martin said, “I saw this in a movie once.”

  He poured himself a large whisky, dipped one end of the cigar in the glass and lit the other end.

  “Winston Churchill used to dip his in port,” Frank said, “I’ll smoke mine dry if you don’t mind though.”

  “Let’s get a photo,” Roxy suggested. “You two.” She pointed to Frank and Martin, “sit closer together, whisky in one hand, cigar in the other.”

  She went to fetch the camera. She took four photographs in quick succession.

  “Just to be sure,” she said, “Digital’s great isn’t it?”

  “Do you have a timer on that thing?” Martin asked.” Let’s get one of the four of us. For prosperity’s sake.”

  Roxy placed the camera on the tripod; made sure everyone was in the frame, pressed the five second timer and quickly returned to the others. She counted to three.

  “Everyone say ‘money’,” she said.

  The flash went off. She repeated the procedure.

  “I’ll e-mail them to you when I get a chance,” she said cheerfully.
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  “The taxi will be here in twenty minutes,” Martin said.

  He eyed the bottle of whisky. There was enough for two double measures left in the bottle. He poured one for himself and emptied what was left into Frank’s glass.

  “Whisky goes off,” he joked, “no sense in wasting it.”

  Martin was a reasonably heavy drinker but it had been a while since he had felt this inebriated.

  A cell phone was ringing in the hallway. A song from the eighties played. It was Martin’s. By the time he had stumbled through to retrieve it, the ringing had stopped. “Must be a wrong number,” he said, “or maybe it was the taxi company to say they’re on their way.”

  It was five minutes to midnight. Martin drained what was left of the whisky and went to check on Penny. She was still asleep.

  “Penny’s still asleep,” he said as he put his coat on and helped Wendy with hers.

  “She can sleep here if she wants,” Roxy said.

  Everyone looked at her in disbelief.

  “What?” Roxy said, “She’s been no trouble”.

  “Thanks Rox,” Wendy said, “but I know she’d prefer to sleep in her own bed. Especially as its Christmas. Martin can carry her to the taxi. Just don’t drop her.”

  She looked at Martin.

  “You’re a bit unsteady on your feet.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Whatever next?” Frank said, “a courteous taxi driver. In the old days they just used to honk the horn until the whole neighbourhood was awake.”

  Martin picked up Penny, wrapped her coat around her and steadied himself. “Concentrate,” he said to himself under his breath, “not far now.”

  “Thanks you two,” Wendy said, “we had a great time.”

  “It’s been our pleasure,” Roxy replied, “and that child of your is welcome anytime. Do you hear me?”

  Martin was taking deep breaths. He was determined not to drop his daughter. Frank opened the door. It was not cold but there were no stars and a blanket of drizzle had enveloped the sky. He managed to put Penny in the back of the taxi without incident. The taxi driver was playing the same Beatles song in the car. Penny woke when they were nearly home.

  “My book,” she croaked.

  “What was that Penny?” Wendy asked.

  “My book,” she said again, this time much louder, “I left my book behind.”

  “We’re nearly home baby,” Martin said, “We’ll get it next time we see uncle Frank and aunty Roxy ok?”

  “But I’d nearly finished it,” Penny protested.

  “I’ll fetch it tomorrow for you. It’s time for bed.”

  The taxi stopped outside the house.

  “Martin,” Wendy whispered as Martin was paying the driver.

  It was the same Chinese man. He was without the Santa Claus hat this time.

  “Martin, I think there’s someone in the house.”

  Martin dropped a handful of coins onto the floor of the taxi. He was seeing double. The whisky had finally overtaken him. He picked up the coins one by one and paid the driver. “Don’t be silly,” he said, “why would there be someone in the house?”

  “I’m sure I saw something move upstairs, behind the curtains.” She sounded terrified.

  “Too much wine,” he tried to reassure her, “I can see two houses at the moment. You’re going to have to direct me to ours.”

  They watched as the taxi drove off.

  “You go in first,” Wendy ordered.

  “Ok,” Martin said, “if it’ll make you feel better.”

  Drunk as he was, Martin remembered the feeling of unease he had when they had left earlier that evening. Had he locked the front door? He put the key in the lock. It did not turn. The door was unlocked. He felt a burning in his stomach. Cautiously, he opened the door and looked inside. He sighed.

  “Everything seems to be fine,” he said, “come inside, you’re getting soaked.”

  “Bedtime Penny,” Martin said when they were inside “Christmas Day tomorrow.”

  “Shouldn’t you check upstairs first?” Wendy suggested, “I’m sure I saw something up there.”

  Martin shrugged.

  “If you insist.” he said.

  He stumbled up the stairs. He checked the rooms carefully, one by one.

  “Nothing amiss,” he called down and started to walk back down.

  He had to hold on to the rail tightly to stay upright.

  “I’ll make us some coffee,” Wendy said, “Did you lock the door?”

  He sat on the bottom step and fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

  Wendy screamed.

  “There was a face at the window!” she cried.

  Her face was white. Martin Willow heard the scream and saw Wendy’s mouth move but could not decipher that words that came out.

  “Martin, there’s someone behind the door!” Wendy called out, louder this time.

  Martin Willow’s vision began to blur. He was vaguely aware of more screams but he was drifting between greyness and blackness. He saw the front door open, tried to get up but his limbs were paralysed. That was when the blackness prevailed.

  “Martin!” Wendy screamed but Martin could no longer hear her.

  She turned to face the man in the doorway. He had a dark green balaclava over his head and face but he seemed familiar. In his hand he held a hammer, a claw type hammer. Wendy tried to speak but the words did not come out. She suddenly felt dizzy. The man in the doorway did not move. She looked at his eyes through the slits in the balaclava. They were staring straight ahead and they did not blink. That was when she realised who it was. Behind her, Penny had crawled under the coffee table and Wendy could hear her soft whimpering as though it was being played over a loudspeaker. Her vision was coming in waves of colour and black and white. The man approached her with the hammer held over his head. As he brought it down on the top of her head, Wendy did not even have the strength to lift up her arms to defend herself. She saw a flash of white and felt the force of the blow spread from the crown of her head, down her cheeks and into her teeth. She was aware of herself falling to the ground, felt another blow, this time to the front of the face and then she felt nothing more.

  Penny tried to crawl further under the coffee table but there was nowhere left to go. She had covered her ears with her hands and now she slowly took them away. The horrible noises had stopped. She looked over to where her mother had been and saw a man leaning over her on the floor. He was shaking. She watched as he took off his balaclava and placed it in his pocket. She gasped as she saw his face. He walked over to where she hid and bent down so his face was almost level with the top of the table.

  “Come out princess,” he said in an almost friendly tone, “I’m afraid your Daddy took something from me, something very precious and I’m just taking the same from him.”

  Penny did not move. She looked over to where her father was slumped at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Don’t worry about him sweetheart,” the man said, “It looks like this is going to be easier than I thought and I’m not going to hurt him. Not physically anyway.”

 

  TWO

  TAKEN

  Sunday 29 November 1998 Fremantle Australia