THERE IS A PLACE By: David Rees-Thomas
Thursday, February 26th, 2009“There is a place.” She said, “A place you should not go, a place that will call you all the same but you should not go, you really really shouldn’t.”
I remember pushing her back down on the tatty checked sofa, unfortunate colours, clashing hard with the nicotine walls. I told her.
“Lady, I don’t care. I want and I need you to be quiet, to shut up. You keep on talking.”
I showed her the knife again. She smiled but at least she stayed sitting on the sofa.
I wasn’t happy that she was smiling though, like she knew something, like she was in control, like I’d missed something.
She lived by herself and I was trying to rob her. I didn’t want to hear her talk.
She’d already told me about her cousin Marvin, who had once played golf with Terry Yorath, think that’s what she said, she told me that he’d caused her a lot of heartache when they were younger, Marvin that is, not Terry, something about a jazz festival in Bournemouth, it really didn’t matter, really.
She told me all this but not where she kept the jewelry. I was getting irritated. I’m a big man, she should have been scared.
She had mittens on her feet, big acrylic fluff slippers. I blew warm air on my hands and rubbed my ears and nose. I wondered if I would do her. Would she care? Was I beginning to care?
What happened next should have given me some warning. She hoisted up her skirt and ran a finger across her wetted lips, winking at me. She was no younger than eighty.
I told her to stop. I couldn’t look at her. I tried to focus all my energy on a little plastic miniature high heeled shoe that was in fact a telephone holder and charger. There was even a lovely pink and blue flower embedded in the toe area.
Maybe I should have left at this point, or done her. I wasn’t sure how good an idea that was. I turned back to her, my eyes flicking between her grinning old face and the poster of a well oiled Shawn Michaels just above her head. I didn’t like this place, I was very unsure.
“Be strong.” She said. “Don’t get drawn to the place.” She paused and a tear slid down. She wiped it and sucked her finger.
“I like the saltiness.” And pouted at me.
What did she think she was? A Marilyn Monroe? I was no Kennedy, not at all.
“Where don’t you want me to go?”
I leaned in at her, I was getting bored. I figured that she was trying one on and that the place I should not go was probably exactly where I should go.
“Jeff Hardy against The Big Show. You shoulda seen ‘em.” She shook her head, laughing, tight red curls flopping a little on her forehead.
“Really though, when you get there, you’ll know. Just don’t go in.”
I lost it.
“Look lady, shut it. Shut it now. Do not for any reason at all talk anymore, at all. Not about wrestling, not about cousin Marvin, not about the God damned Pope, nothing. Ok”
Now she chose to sulk, arms crossed, face slack, an insolent five year old, her face contorting, she poked her tongue out and blew a raspberry in my direction.
I ignored her and kept hunting around the small dining area for anything that looked as though it was worth something. Nothing so far, a set of coasters form Marbella, never used by the looks of things and an egg timer, a souvenir from Darlington, if ever there were such a thing, useful but worthless.
“Seriously, lady, just give me what I want and I’m out of here, this is just getting annoying now.”
I left the dining room and moved into the kitchen, I pulled drawers out, dropping them on the floor, flinging shit everywhere. I was getting real upset now. I reached for the top cupboard high above my head and she spoke, her face grown real serious as she followed me into the kitchen.
“Yeah, don’t do that, like I was saying earlier.”
“Piss off lady.” I tugged on the handles and the doors didn’t move at all. I tugged again, nothing. I nudged her out of the way; she stumbled a little and then sat at the kitchen counter mumbling about my bad manners or some such thing. I tugged again, harder this time, very hard; I could feel my face turning red, the pressure building.
I stopped and got my breath back. Absolutely no give at all, nothing. The doors wouldn’t budge at all.
“So, is this it? Is this the place you didn’t want me to see, the place you’ve been warning me about?”
She didn’t speak, or move at all, just stared at me.
“What’ll happen if I get the cupboard open lady?” I stood very close to her, her back hard against the wall, the stool she sat upon leaning back. She looked pale and afraid.
“Please, just don’t go in there, don’t open it, please.”
She grabbed my shoulders and put her mouth to my ears, whispered.
“My husband.”
I pulled away and looked around me, I saw nothing.
“What do you mean your husband?” I was shouting now. “Where? In there? Are you kidding me? Is he in the house somewhere? What do you mean?”
“No” she said. “You should go now, really. If you go, I’ll say nothing, I won’t repeat this to a soul but if you stay…”
Her voice trailed off as she looked past me to where I could hear new sounds, a soft icy breeze upon my neck.
I didn’t look round, just left her sitting there and bolted, ran like hell for about a mile. I’ve often thought about what was in that cupboard. Her husband? Sounds crazy. Her jewelry? Yeah, I bet that’s what it was.
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©2009 David Rees-Thomas
David Rees-Thomas lives in Japan but originally hails from Wales. He is addicted to writing and has a deep love for the short story. He likes a diverse variety of writers such as Raymond Carver, Philip K.Dick, Michael Moorcock and Jay McInerney. He also dabbles in musical creation. You can find some of those dabblings on the Phenotypo web page here- www.soundclick.com/phenotypo and other writings on sites such as Microhorror and Alienskin.
