Deadly Encounters Read online

  Emily gossiped happily. “It belonged to a Mrs Summer? She disappeared about ten years ago. Her family had to have her declared dead. I heard that she ran off with her young Moroccan lover. Maybe she’s still enjoying the high life somewhere.”

  “Could be.” I smiled coldly but smirked inwardly at the idea that the stern, uptight Mary Louise Summer had ever had any lovers, let alone a handsome Moroccan one. No man in his right mind would have ventured near her.

  “How very mysterious it all is.” Emily giggled. “Just right for a criminologist.”

  “Indeed it is. Perfect,” I agreed. It had actually been me that started that rumour. A young Moroccan student had worked in Mrs Summer’s precious garden occasionally and tongues had wagged. Heaven knows what happened to him, but if he had returned to North Africa, it hadn’t been in the company of Mrs Summer, of that I was certain.

  I led Emily into the kitchen so that we could get started on the paperwork. “It will just take me a few minutes to get all this together,” she said, pulling a file and an iPad from her bag.

  “No problem,” I said, “I’ll just have a quick mosey around if you don’t mind.” And without waiting for an answer, I returned to the entrance hallway and headed for the stairs. I climbed into the light streaming into the hallway from the stained glass window halfway up the stairs. With every step I took, the old carpet emitted little puffs of dust that sparkled and danced in the light, like nothing in this sad house had ever done before.

  I knew where I was heading. The layout of the house mirrored my parents’ house. In the back bedroom, I pressed my forehead against the grimy window and peered out over the garden, smiling at the overgrowth, the brambles, bushes, and wild roses. I cast my mind back to how the garden had looked thirty years before.

  I had been eight. It had been the first summer where I’d had permission to explore farther afield than Sandilands Drive. With my friends Ian, Karen, Joe, and Jo, I had ridden my bike out into the country and down to the canal, and we had created dens, formed secret societies, sworn pacts of eternal friendship and generally had a great time. I was a happy, healthy kid. Then I had caught measles and the summer continued without me. My friends added a new member to the gang, and I was temporarily forgotten. My house and garden became my entire world.

  My greatest friend at that time had been Sampson. Sampson had been a tiger. Okay, really he was a stripy cat who wasn’t even orange. The stripes were like a tiger’s but the resemblance ended there. Sampson was a pussycat in all the ways that mattered. Neither fierce nor ferocious; he was friendly, loving, and vocal. I adored him although he didn’t belong to me. I had no idea of his real name, or even if he was a he. I just liked the name Sampson. I cherished his daily visits, and on fine days I played with him for as long as he would let me. On wet days I sat in my bedroom, opened the window and called to him. My parents didn’t allow him in the house so we would look at each other mournfully through the glass, and he would meow.

  Finally, slightly later than the other children, I re-joined school. I felt tired, itchy and morose that first day, yearning to hurry home to Sampson. At the bell I rushed home, ran as fast as my weak little legs would carry me, dashed past Mum in the kitchen and straight out into our garden. I called for Sampson and listened. I heard an answering meow from next door so I wandered over to the fence, searching for somewhere low enough for me to be able to see over.

  Mrs Summer was our less than friendly neighbour. Probably in her early forties at the time, she seemed far older. I don’t know who or where her husband was. Mrs Summer lived alone and hated children, noise and jollity. Woe betide any child who kicked a ball into her garden. I found her quite intimidating, so I raised my head above the fence slowly and quietly.

  What I saw stayed with me forever. Mrs Summer held Sampson by the scruff of his neck in one hand. In the other she held a knife. With one quick movement, she slit the cat’s throat and tossed him onto her compost heap where he lay, twitching and shuddering. I bolted backwards, sick to my stomach. She turned, saw me, and sneered. She gestured at me with her knife; threatening me.

  “Stay out of my garden!” she hissed. I collapsed on the ground, shaking, a combination of terror and grief. She had killed my beloved Sampson!

  I ran howling into my house, destroyed by what I had witnessed. My parents understood but were dismissive; what could they do? As an adult, they considered Mrs Summer somehow untouchable. The cat had been a pest. Mrs Summer was therefore within her rights.

  Remembering all this, I walked solemnly downstairs and opened the door into the garden. I squeezed my way through the undergrowth, to a dilapidated old shed and the large compost heap to the rear. Emily followed me out, making noises about what a lovely garden this could be. The sun shone down on us momentarily. I gazed at the place where Sampson had died.

  Emily rested her hand against a dark, spotted stain on the wall of the shed, lifting her face to the sun. I smiled fondly at the stain. Ten years ago while researching for my PhD I had visited Mrs Summer one evening, ostensibly to ask her some questions about the anti-social behaviour of the neighbourhood youngsters. Of course she knew who I was, but we didn’t refer to ‘the incident’ of my youth. After all, I came to her as a grown-up and a respectable academic by then.

  She led me proudly through her precious garden, through the hollyhocks, lilies, and roses while we chatted. Once we arrived at the compost heap, I calmly produced a sharp knife and slit her throat much as she had done to Sampson. Her blood spurted messily against the shed wall before she crumpled at my feet, gurgling but making little noticeable fuss. I dragged her body to the compost heap and buried her deeply within it. Over the next few evenings I made numerous visits to the garden, weeding, digging, filling and feeding the compost heap with all manner of nasties. Mrs Summer had never been seen again.

  “What will you do with the house, Dr Crawley?” Emily asked. “Will you keep it?”

  “Oh yes,” I grinned. “It brings back some lovely memories. I’m thinking of getting a cat.”

  RURAL DECAY

  A pastel dusk had faded into darkness, and drizzle fell. The few houses I passed were quiet, soft light glowing behind drawn curtains, smoke curling from stunted chimneys. No lanterns and pumpkins here. No trick or treaters. No sense of season. Just the closed doors and minds of the fearful inhabitants of a rural village.

  An absence of youngsters, a population on the verge of dying out. Soon there will be nobody left. The trees will entangle themselves around the ruins of pretty cottages and tear the stones asunder, dragging them into the marsh.

  Shuffling heavily through the leaves, I follow the path to the tiny church. A bonfire burns brightly in the corner of the graveyard. Yellow flames leap from an orange heart and hypnotize; I head for its warmth, wading through grass growing tall above the graves, the stones higgledy-piggledy and covered in lichen.

  I heave the load from my shoulder, drop it into the centre of the fire. Sparks explode angrily, and for a moment the fire dies back. I wait patiently. Watch entranced. Eventually the clothes start to smoulder, followed by the hair.

  I like it best when the fingers and toes curl and snap.

  It’s All Souls’ Day tomorrow, but what use are memorials when there is no-one left to remember?

  GRETEL’S REVENGE

  Hansel poked the bone through the bars of the cage. The witch moved closer and stared myopically down at what she misconstrued to be his finger. Her fetid breath stank of rank meat and sour milk. Hansel turned his face away and stopped breathing in so that he wouldn’t have to smell her. He feared her but was disgusted by her too. He could not abide the stink of her.

  He peered at her face. Old, so old. The lines on her skin were deep, and dirt deeply engrained in the crevices around her nose and eyes. Stringy, coarse hair framed her sallow skin. Everything about her seemed dried out and crispy. A crust had formed on her lips, dry skin, flaking away. As she spoke, she festooned the space around her with spit and old food.
Food figured highly in the witch’s life; she was forever hungry, and she loved to eat. She craved delicate and tender meat. Make no bones about it, she planned to eat Hansel.

  The witch clasped the bone between her thumb and first finger for a moment, before releasing it and unleashing a stream of vile curses at him. He scuttled backwards into the shadowy recesses of the cage still holding the bone in front of himself.

  Behind the witch, Gretel banked the flames of the fire. Light flared in the small, smoky room, illuminating Hansel and the dummy finger held tightly in his hand. Gretel half expected their deception to be discovered, but light or no light, the witch was virtually blind. Cataracts clouded her yellow eyes, and she could only make out shapes and shadows.

  “Tiresome child!” she shrieked and flakes of skin, repulsive snowflakes, fluttered onto her chest. “Why do you put no meat on your bones?” She slammed her hands against the bars of the cage so that it rattled. Hansel shrank back. “I’m hungry! Damn you to hell and back!”

  The witch whirled about, her black skirts flaring as she did so, kicking up the dust and straw that littered the floor. “You!” she screamed at Gretel. “Build the fire under the oven. Make it hot, hot as you can. I will not starve myself for even one more night, not on your wretched brother’s account. I grow weary of waiting!”

  “But surely—” Gretel wanted to argue that Hansel would soon put on weight, but the witch rounded on her swiftly, striking her with a flat hand. Once, twice, three times she slapped Gretel, who twisted away and fell to the floor, her hands over her head, protecting herself.

  “You have nothing to say!” The witch instructed, her voice shrill, cutting through the air. An owl roosting high in the eaves of the thatch of the cottage fluttered uneasily and turned its head away, hiding its eyes. “You miss, are meaningless. Your existence is void. Mark what I say, or I will mark you. Build the fire!” The witch kicked Gretel and swung back to Hansel. She peered into the gloom of the cage towards where she assumed Hansel shivered with fear, pulling her lips back from her teeth. Her front teeth were like tombstones, strong but black and green as though covered in moss and lichen. She hissed at Hansel, and again he turned his head from her dead stench.

  Tiring of the children, she clumped noisily out of the cottage and slammed the door so hard that the owl in the eaves fluttered and feathers and dust from his wings spiralled to the floor.

  Hansel moved impatiently towards the front of the cage. “Gretel!” he whispered loudly. “Gretel!”

  The girl on the floor slowly uncoiled herself and sat up. Tears glistened in her eyes, but she blinked them back.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” Gretel replied. “Not really. It will pass.” She stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders and took a few deep breaths. Hansel watched his sister with concern.

  “We have to get out of here. You have to find a way to release me from this cage.”

  “I don’t know what to do!” Gretel rubbed her dirty face with even dirtier hands. “You know she carries the key on the chain around her waist. I can’t steal it from her. Even when she sleeps she has one eye open.”

  “There must be another way.”

  From outside, deep in the forest, they heard a lone wolf howling, a chilling sound. Gretel shuddered. She went to the door and opened it a tiny crack, peering out. Her breath steamed when she breathed.

  “It’s cold out there. There’ll be a deep frost in the morning.” She sighed and closed the door, turned her attention back to the fire. She would build it, and it would warm the occupants of this evil cottage, but then the witch would come back and … Gretel looked at her brother. It didn’t bear thinking about. The witch would burn him alive and then eat him. Unless …

  ***

  The witch returned much later, carrying herbs that she had collected in the forest. She was now starving and even more foul-tempered. She glared at both children.

  “I will hang the cauldron, and you can start heating the water, girl,” she instructed, and Gretel hurried to do her bidding. The cauldron was large and extremely heavy. It hung from a large iron hook in the alcove above the oven, and Gretel could not lift it, yet the witch could heft it easily with one hand. She had amazing strength.

  Gretel had to climb onto a stool in order to be able to reach high enough to pour water from a bucket into the cauldron. The cauldron held eight buckets of water, and Gretel drew each bucket from the well. Filling the cauldron was a slow and tiresome business, and all the time that Gretel laboured, the oven grew hotter and hotter.

  By the time the cauldron had been filled, the witch had finished kneading some dough that she had prepared earlier in the day.

  “We will bake first,” she said. The witch liked nothing better than a thick nutritious boy stew flavoured with fresh herbs, accompanied by freshly baked bread.

  “Girl!” The witch smiled slyly at Gretel. “We need to ensure the oven is the correct temperature.” She looked towards the oven with her yellow eyes. Flames darted out from the sides of the oven. “Creep in,” said the witch. “See if it is properly heated. Then I will know that I can bake my bread to perfection.”

  Gretel stared at the oven, now so hot that the door glowed red and orange. She observed as the flames flicked at the sides and understood that once she put her head into the oven, the witch would push her in and shut the door. The witch had obviously grown tired of both of the children. She intended to eat Gretel too. Gretel might have been young, but she wasn’t stupid, and she had a plan.

  “Oh gracious witch,” she cried. “I cannot see how I can possibly do as you ask. How do I get in?” She fell to her knees in supplication. “Please do not be angry with me. I only wish to attend you!”

  “Foolish child!” hissed the witch, her eyes burning with annoyance. “The door is plenty big enough to allow you access!”

  “No ma’am!” cried Gretel plaintively. “I fear it is not!”

  “Silly goose,” spat the witch. “That oven door is enormous. Just look, I can climb in myself.” She walked purposely towards the oven and flung open the door with her bare hand. Leaning down, she thrust her head into the oven.

  Gretel acted quickly. Leaping to her feet, she drove both hands into the witch’s ample rump. She pushed hard against the witch’s buttocks with all of her strength and drove the old woman hard into the oven. The witch yelled and shrieked in raw agony. Gretel had no doubt that her blood curdling screams would be heard all over the forest. She slammed the door shut and fastened the bolt. The witch was trapped.

  The shrieking continued but only for a short while. To Gretel and Hansel, the witch’s screams were music to their ears. A lullaby of freedom.

  The oven roared and burned, and Gretel attended to it for a while. The stench of burning flesh seemed overpowering at times, but Gretel bore it because Hansel remained trapped in his cage and he had no choice but to inhale the fetid, fatty stink. Towards dawn, the fire began to die down, and Gretel left it. She slept on the floor beside Hansel’s cage for a few hours while Hansel watched over her, keeping one eye firmly on the locked door of the oven.

  When Gretel awoke, she lay for a moment on the hard floor, testing her body for aches and pains. Sitting, she remembered the events of the night before and immediately hurried to open the door of the oven to peer in. Smiling at Hansel, she rushed out of the cottage and drew a bucket of fresh water from the well. She re-entered the cottage and doused the burning embers of the oven.

  Picking up a large wooden spoon, generally used to stir the contents of the huge cauldron, Gretel poked her head into the rapidly cooling oven and scraped the remains of the fire out onto the floor around her feet. Once she had managed to scrape out the bulk of the ash and detritus, she squatted on her haunches and sifted through the mess with her fingers.

  She searched among fragments of charred wood, pieces of material, slivers of bone and unidentifiable chunks of matter that were congealed, foul-smelling and smoking. Finally, she found it—the key t
o Hansel’s cage. Gretel picked it up, burning her fingers, and quickly threw it into the bucket. She washed it thoroughly in what remained of the water, wiping it free of the gruesome gore and burnt flesh that clung to it. When it was clean, she stood stiffly and stepped over the mess on the floor to unlock the cage and set Hansel free.

  “We did it!” breathed Hansel. “We can go home.” Gretel laughed and embraced her brother and arm in arm they walked towards the cottage door. Hansel stood on the threshold and breathed in the fresh cold air of the frosty day outside, but Gretel turned back. Reaching back into the heap of burnt offerings on the floor she extracted a bone.

  It was a small bone. It had once been part of the witch’s right hand, probably a proximal or intermediate phalange, but Gretel didn’t care about this. She trusted the urge she felt, something inside her that nagged her to take it away. It would come in useful later.

  She joined Hansel at the cottage door, and together they stepped out into the cold day and started on the long journey through the forest in search of the home they had been forced to leave just four weeks previously. Every step of the way, Gretel thought about the circumstances that had led to their encounter with the witch; the way her stepmother had managed to persuade their father that he would be better off without his children. She considered how weak-willed her father had been, but she chose to forgive him because she loved him. She recognized that deep inside he sincerely loved his children even though he had a genuine fear of his second wife.

  A grudge began to burn brightly in Gretel’s heart. All the way home she kept a tight hold of the bone in her pocket. She began to plot against her stepmother. The time had arrived to take revenge.