Adam remembered. Too often, he thought. Too clear as well.

The train hammered through the darkening countryside, streetlights just turning on. Next stop home. He put away the paperback he’d been trying to read, slung his bag over his shoulder. The train began to slow. He stood and waited patiently by the automatic doors, his reflection staring back at him, just him and him; alone with his accuser.

He could wait and see Billy in the morning. He needed to go home first.

“Hi Mum.” He said as she opened the front door. She paused, taking him in, then gave him a hug.

“How’s Dad?” He dumped his bag in the hallway and followed her through to the kitchen.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“Your Dad’s fine. He’s out in the shed, trying to finish off a Sopwith Camel I think.”

“Oh, ok, maybe I’ll pop down and say hello a bit later.”

His mother stared at him and handed him a cup of tea.

“You here to talk to Billy?”

“Yes Mum, yes I am. I have to. He’s having a bit of a difficult time. I think he needs my help. I don’t think he’s keeping it together too well.” He cast his eyes downwards, away from his mother. He noticed his father’s record collection.

“Is that another version of the Ring Cycle? Wow, seriously, when does the old man find the time?”

“Your Dad’s got time enough Adam.” She paused, twirling the tea spoon in her fingers. “He’s talking son, he talks a lot, he needs help. Billy can’t handle it by himself; you know what he’s like.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He sipped his tea. They stood in silence for a while, both of them remembering a summertime twenty years ago.

#

Nobody had meant it to happen or so they said. It had been an accident, something so sudden and so, so sad. The body had never been found.

The pond up by the old mill. A place for lovers, losers and those with a habit. Children said it was haunted of course. Sometimes the sheep would graze nearby. Nobody ever walked their dog up there. In the summer, it was very pretty, surrounded by tall flowers and butterflies. He always used to go there with Billy, they’d spend the long days lost in imagination, wonder around every turn. On one particular day they saw the boy who went to the special school, the one with the metal things on his legs because he walked funny. He seemed lost and they were curious as to what he was doing up there all by himself.

#

The next morning, Adam woke early, ate a plate of bacon and eggs, downed some milky warm coffee and drove over to Billy’s flat. He knocked twice. Eventually, Billy opened the door, eyes darting round the street, rubbing a hand through his greasy hair.

“Come in. I thought you’d come around soon.”

The flat was almost empty. They sat at a rickety kitchen table. Adam could see that Billy had been chewing the end of his fingers; they looked clammy and raw red.

“He’s not coming back Billy. It’s ok you know. Just you and me Billy.”

Billy shot him a glance. “And your mother. I know. I’ve seen the way she looks at me, always like she’s keeping an eye on me.”

“Yeah, sorry, yeah, she knows. But that’s good Billy. See, she can protect us, keep us safe when we’re far away from each other.”

“I guess.” Billy said. He was shaking a little and his gray skin was damp.

They sat quietly for a moment.

“I’ve seen him though, not just my imagination, but actually seen him.”

Adam closed his eyes for a moment, the boy’s terrified face, pleading eyes and puffed cheeks looking up at him through the water. He shuddered.

“No, you haven’t. It must be your imagination. He’s gone Billy, you must know that.”

Billy thumped the table.

“Do I? Really? What if he came back? What if he’s after me? Tell me what to do Adam. I’m the one that has to stay here. He’s following me, not you. I told Mary about it.” He looked up at Adam.

“It’s ok though, don’t get all freaky, pretty sure she doesn’t believe me. I’m just another nutter aren’t I, that’s it isn’t it?” He looked down to the floor.

“No Billy, no you’re not. Perhaps she doesn’t believe you but you really shouldn’t tell anyone, ever.”

Adam stood and wiped away a tear. He peeked out the net curtains, his mother, arms folded, waited by the car, looking back up at him.

“I said I’d look after you Billy and I will. I meant what I said.”

He closed the kitchen door and switched the radio on, turning the volume loud, afraid of what came next.

“I love you Billy, you’re like a brother to me.

___
©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.

“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.

___
©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.