Joe and Eleanor shared a quiet moment as they enjoyed the hot tea. The occasional twinkle of a wind chime drifted through from outside. Joe thought of the DJ’s warning.
…electrical storms on the way, so batten down the hatches tonight, folks!
“I bumped, almost literally, into the neighbours on my way down the street,” he said.
“The Harpers?”
Joe described how he’d nearly hit Betsy the dog, and that Anne had passed on her good wishes.
“Now there is a poor woman, little Anne Harper.”
“What do you mean?”
His grandmother swallowed. “You didn’t see the husband, Frank, did you?”
“I might’ve done. Some guy drove past me like hell was on his heels.”
“Was he a middle aged man? Balding?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Such an angry man, Frank Harper. They think their problem is contained, that no one knows. But I see things. Hear things too. I know what’s going on in that house.”
He leaned closer. “What?”
Eleanor leaned in too. Joe expected her bones to creak.
“There’s something wrong with him, you mark my words. He uses that poor woman like a punch bag, beats her black and blue. She tries to cover the cuts and bruises, but I’ve seen them.” She tapped her temple. “Something not quite right up here. A switch that doesn’t switch, I think.”
Joe placed his drink back on the tray. Tea leaves swam in the bottom of his cup like a black sludge. His grandmother had entertained him many times by reading them when he was a child.
“This is the problem, Grandma. Teenage thugs across the street, and a wife beater next door? It’s not safe here. Not for someone of your age living alone.”
Eleanor chuckled. “I’m not as old and decrepit as some of you like to think.”
“This isn’t a joke,” said Joe. “Every time I visit, I try to get you to come back to London with me. This time, I’m determined. I’m not going back without you.”
“I’ve told you before. This is my home. I lived here with your granddad for most of my life. I’m not going to give up all these memories over a couple of wayward teenagers.”
“But we can take all your stuff with us,” Joe pleaded. “You can still have your memories. I can afford a good house for you now, and in a nice area too.”
“Throwing money around is not the solution. I hope your recent success hasn’t gone to your head. I know we raised you better than that, Joseph.”
He sat back and sighed. “I just want you to be safe.”
“And I am! The Dean twins tried to steal a few things, but they were caught. They won’t be back because next time they go to prison. Frank Harper only has fists for his wife. I feel ashamed to say it, but let that fact reassure you that he is not going to come over here. I don’t think he has
ever
come here. Stop worrying. Besides…”
Eleanor rose from the armchair and lovingly stroked the top of its high back.
“Your grandfather used to sit in this chair for hours. He’d push it up to the window and just watch the day go by.” She gestured out of the doorway. “He’d wake me up in the mornings with his whistling while he cooked me bacon and eggs for breakfast. This is all I have left of him. Memories and photographs. I could take the photos to London, I could even take the chair, but I feel like I’d be leaving him behind. Do you understand?”
Joe sighed again. “I do, Grandma, I really do. But at least think about it. Okay?”
3.
Eleanor had built all the shelving that covered the walls of her study; it had normally been a job for Arthur. Like the lounge, the study existed in a state of organised mess, with hundreds of books adorning every surface.
Eleanor sat in a beaten old armchair next to the table and listened to Joseph change channels on the television downstairs. She rolled her eyes and reached for a book on Wicca.
She’d only glanced over the chapters on magic and spell casting. Eleanor had no interest, nor belief, in attention-seeking teenage girls in fishnet stockings, claiming they could make it rain.
Only the core theories of the book mattered. What made this religion tick? And more importantly, what lay in wait for us after death?
The belief centred on a God and Goddess. This symbolised a force of nature, a force found in every living thing. When you die, this force leaves your body and returns to the ether to be distributed once again.
The thought did little to appeal to Eleanor. The whole point of existence was to be a life force thermos, keeping the contents fresh until it was time to distribute again? Where was the comfort in that?
She shook her head and closed the book.
Christianity
, she thought.
Now you’re talking.
Eleanor had only been to church a couple of times, dragged down as a child to various weddings and funerals. She remembered that church was a very dull and boring place, with an egomaniacal priest telling what you could and couldn’t do, and then they made you sing! But heavens, there was an attraction. To finally go down that dark tunnel and meet Arthur at the pearly gates to live forever in paradise.
Now that would make all this worthwhile.
Eleanor reached over to the table, where a fresh cup of tea sat waiting. She held the handle in her frail grip and lifted the china cup to her lips. After a small sip of the steaming drink, she replaced it beside the pile of books on Buddhism.
Those reads had been a shock to her system. Reincarnation? It had some charm. Eleanor had imagined Arthur brought back as a bird, soaring over lakes and forests; or a majestic lion, roaming the African savannah. But what if he had been reincarnated as a slug? Or a worm?
What if I’m reborn as a bird and end up eating my reincarnated wormy husband?
She refused that belief system, although the image of Buddha, a chubby cheerful man, raised her spirit more than Jesus dying on a cross.
The book slid off her lap and onto the floor, spreading open as it hit the carpet.
She’d spent years reading about all the various religions, searching for an answer. Many philosophers and religious leaders had dedicated lifetimes trying to answer the immortal question of what happens after death. Eleanor had dedicated her remaining years to such a cause: sifting through writings to find a link, some common ground that all the religions agreed on.
Also amidst the volumes lay magazines and encyclopaedias on the subject of the supernatural. Eleanor thought it strange, but this avenue gave her more hope than any religion. Ghosts, psychics, out of body experiences. These unexplained phenomena suggested there was more to life than the flesh, bone and blood shells we live in.
In her old, failing shell, Eleanor prayed that more lay beyond the grave.
She reached down, back muscles straining as she leant forwards, and scooped up the book on Wicca. She turned it over, ready to start trawling through the pages to her place.
The book had fallen open to a chapter called
The Power of Three
. A crudely drawn black and white diagram showed three women lying on their backs, heads together. Their arms and legs were spread, forming a triangle that resembled a simple snowflake.
Eleanor knew of the beliefs in the power of the number three. Wasn’t Macbeth visited by three witches? Didn’t a coven need at least three members? The Bermuda Triangle, a three-sided area of mystery. Groups of threes, triangles, magic. She read on through the chapter.
The belief in the power of the number three has gone on for centuries, but only modern witches and mystics in this age still have faith in its potential for working magic. High priestesses can only achieve limited success when working on their own, but in a trio…
Eleanor closed the book, recognising another waste of time. The number three had no real significance.
Just a number
, she thought.
Like five. Or perhaps seven…
She tossed the book, aiming for another pile leaning against the wall. The book spun through the air but dipped early, hitting the side of the stack. The pile fell; various paperbacks and magazines scattered on the floor.
Disappointed with her wasted evening, Eleanor rose from her chair. The process had lengthened in her old age, starting with a gentle shift to the very edge of the seat followed by an almighty push to her feet. Her knees clicked.
Whatever is over the horizon, it had better come soon. I’m too tired of all this, just too tired and too damn old!
Shuffling onto the landing, she decided to leave Joseph to it and head to bed. All the reading had strained her eyes, which already threatened a low, throbbing headache.
Better to get ready for bed now and have a lie down in a darkened room. Early start tomorrow. I’ll make Joseph breakfast in the morning, just like Arthur used to. He’ll like that.
“Good night, Joseph!” she called down the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late!”
4.
Joe cracked open his second beer. His grandmother never had any alcohol in the house, besides the occasional bottle of wine for cooking. Preparing for this imminent obstacle, he’d smuggled a six-pack of lager inside his suitcase. Joe knew his grandmother might disapprove if she caught him, but she remained upstairs with her books.
He sat in his grandfather’s chair in front of the television, watching the snooker. He had little time for the sport, but found it more entertaining than a politics show, celebrity something-or-other or a bland American sitcom. His mind wandered from the rolling balls and hushed commentary of the screen. His thoughts drifted down the street and loitered outside Anne Harper’s house.
He remembered her eyes were red and blotched and presumed this wife-beating husband of hers, this Frank, had been to blame. He certainly seemed pissed off, the way he hunched over the steering wheel as he’d sped past.
A sudden roar from outside broke his pondering. It sounded like a chainsaw, or motorbike. He jumped up and with the can of lager still in his hand, rushed to the window. He pulled back the curtain.
Outside, the street stood empty. A cloud of black smoke hung in the air near the Dean’s house, stretching towards the main road. The Dean twins themselves had vanished from their spot on the low wall.
Must have been a motorbike after all.
Joe drank from his can and craned his neck to look down the street, in particular, the house next door.
I should really go over there. Just to check the dog is okay, at least. It could have gone into shock or something.
He gulped down the remaining beer and, leaving the television on, left the living room. After disposing of the empty can with its partner in the kitchen bin, he sneaked down the hall and out the front door.
Night had descended early. The street had darkened to a grey hue, under a blanket of cloud that had swept in overhead. The vibrant colours of spring were drowned out by the messengers of the approaching storm. Joe felt the breeze, surprisingly cold after such a nice day, pass through his thin shirt, chilling the skin.
Looks like the guy on the radio was right. We might be in for a rough night.
Joe glanced at his beloved new car. Having the thieving Dean twins so close bothered him. Satisfied the car appeared fine, and that the stereo was still attached, he headed across to the driveway of the house next door.
It lay empty.
He wiped his moist palms on the front of his shirt. His heart flickered like a flame, and his stomach squirmed full of snakes.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a lovesick teenager asking out the girl next door. I’m just going to see if the dog’s okay. The dog and the kids, they could be upset.
He walked up a short pathway paved in grey and red slabs, past the front window and up to the front door. He rang the doorbell.
Inside, the dog - Betsy, he recalled - started to bark, which was immediately followed by shouts from the children.
“Betsy! Be quiet!”
“Stop barking, Betsy!”
A chain rattled, and the door swung open, revealing a young girl, maybe only five or six years old. She stared up at him.
Behind her, in the hall, the boy held Betsy back by the collar. The dog growled and tried to bolt to the front door. The boy strained as Betsy pushed forward.
Joe cleared his throat.
“Hello there. I don’t suppose your mum is home?”
The girl, still in her primary school uniform, just gazed up at him.
Jesus, I hope she’s not deaf or a mute or something.
“Mum,” the boy shouted from behind her. “Someone at the door.”
The girl turned. Giggling, she ran up the stairs.
“Who is it?” rang a cry from somewhere in the house.
“I don’t know,” whined the boy. “You’re going to have to come see. It’s a man.”
Joe rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands fidgeting with the contents of his pockets.
This was a bad idea. No, it was a stupid idea. The poor woman’s got enough on her plate being alone with her two young kids after a big barmy with her husband. I should just…
Anne appeared through a doorway and walked into the hall. “Charlie, take Betsy into the kitchen and make sure that you close the door this time!”
“Yes, Mum.”
Anne stepped past the struggling boy, wringing her hands dry on a tea towel. From the delicious aroma drifting down the hall, Joe gathered she was preparing dinner. She draped the cloth over her shoulder and finally looked up at her visitor.
“Erm…hey,” he said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but…”
Anne stopped dead with an expression of horror.
“I remember. You’re Eleanor’s son - sorry, grandson. I’m really sorry again about before. If there’s any damage, then…”
“No, no, no,” said Joe and smiled. “There’s not a mark.”
“That’s why you’ve come over, isn’t it? There’s a scratch, or your brakes are broken because you slammed on so hard…”
“There’s nothing. Really. Don’t worry.”
“Or you,” Anne continued her nervous babble, “you might have whiplash and you’ve come over to warn me of doctor’s bills and solicitor’s letters…”