The Shrieking Wind
The wind had increased since that afternoon. It thrust the wooden gate open, causing it to judder on old rusty hinges. The wind carried on oblivious. It rapped on windows as it scaled the shingle studded exterior wall, rattled along the slate roof tiles and dived down the chimney breast, coughing out a throat full of smoke as it landed on the hearth rug. Torn pages from a baby memoirs book were nestled on the nest of tables by the worn leather sofa. Tiny feet and hands shuddered as the cold breeze fanned them. One sheet fluttered from the table. The others leapt to its rescue. It fell alone to the cold parquet flooring, the others stretched out hopelessly across the table. The house lay silent, silent except for a low humming that came from the garage attached. Unknown to the unmoving man that lay in a pool of red oily gloop, the garage was slowly filling with carbon monoxide.
In the two bedrooms above two more bodies lay still. Only one was breathing. Marie lay on top of the bed sheets, her head resting on her plump pillow, her eyes closed, her ears picking up the low cry of the wind outside. She slowly inhaled, relishing the stillness of the house, holding her breath in for as long as she could before releasing it. In, and out, in, and out in slow controlled movements until she felt she may allow herself to drift off into the safety of slumber, but she didn’t want that. She wanted to enjoy her new found solitude so she roused herself and stepped from the bed, her bare feet padding across the shadow streaked landing where darkness stained the walls and crept into every corner.
The door to the nursery was closed tightly, concealing the cot that, at first glance, was occupied only by a teddy bear and a pillow matching that of the one Marie’s head had been resting on.
The awaiting bath water was still warm yet the bubbles had disintegrated. All that was left was a thin layer of magnolia froth that sizzled like a lit cigarette on bare flesh, a sound that Marie knew only too well. Her scarred naked body penetrated the soapy film and as if by divine miracle the water turned into a rich claret.
The body in the garage twitched ever so slightly.
Eyes closed, Marie ducked beneath the surface, allowing air bubbles to tickle her nose as they escaped. She imagined she was a fish, a large grey scaly herring with fins and a tail instead of hands and feet. Only when she attempted to breath in a gill full of water did she remember that she was not a herring at all and she raised herself, sloshing water about her as if in the centre of a stormy seascape. She spluttered and slicked her long hair back from her face with the palms of her hands.
In the garage there was more movement as a hand slid slowly from pocket to face. Blind fingers felt their way to the ninth button of a miniature oblong brick and tapped it three times.
Marie relaxed back, drowning the thoughts that started to swim up from the depths of her mind. There was no urgent need to feed the boy, no reason to further fear the fist of the hand that fed her. She allowed herself to listen to the voice that told her everything would be okay come daylight. The forecast was in her favour. She had some digging to do.
She allowed herself once more to relax into the stillness, to listen contentedly to the silence. The wind outside was now nothing but an inaudible whimper. Thoughts of violence were now someone else’s memory.
The woman listened carefully to the whisper at the end of her receiver as she typed the details into her computer. She was calm and reassuring. She promised to stay on the telephone until help arrived.
The water was now cold. Marie’s fingers were like ripe leathery passion fruit skins. She figured it must be around one in the morning as the owl in the conifer outside the bathroom window began to hoo hoo, as it did every night at around that time. The conifer, itself, scratched at the glass as if wanting to be let in from the cold. A tapping at the front door had startled Marie out of her trance. She listened as the slow steady knock increased in volume and urgency but she made no effort to remove herself from the tub.
The engine in the garage had stalled after drinking up the last dregs of fuel from the tank yet the room was still foggy with fumes.
The baby with the blue lips remained peaceful in its cot in the nursery. Nor the pillow or the bear capable of warming his icy stare.
The tap-tapping at the door was now a heavy thudding. There was a crack like that of a head being whacked by a wrench as the door was torn from its frame. The uniforms stormed the staircase.
In the garage, the body was beginning to stiffen. In the pool of sticky blood that had poured out onto the concrete, a mobile phone gave out its terminal bleep.
The woman at the end of the receiver called out the man’s name but all that she heard in reply was the low humming of a lost connection.
Marie sunk her head under the ruby red in an attempt subdue the now shrieking wind.
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