Life at the End of the Road Read online

  Olive looked at me with concerned eyes. ‘Yes… she is. I don’t think she gets out very much, though. There’s people around town who still hate her.’

  ‘People hate her? Why?’

  ‘You don’t remember, Annie? A couple of people died in the fire. One of them was just a kid.’

  ‘And they hate her because she raised the boy that caused their deaths.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  I looked down, guiltily. ‘I suppose I would. So why does she stay around here? If that had happened to me, I know I’d be looking for a fresh start somewhere new.’

  Olive shrugged. ‘I couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ok. Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘If I tell you, Annie, you’re not going to pay her a visit, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I lied, ‘I’m just curious.’

  I left Olive and Sarah comforting Laura’s mother, and set off down the road to the part of the town that housed the new builds. Olive had pointed out exactly in which house the most-hated woman in Redbury currently resided. She remained in the same part of town (that which had been damaged by fire), although, for obvious reasons, not in the house from which the Fire initially materialised.

  This part of town was not far from the Kamryn household, and the rooftops of these new homes could be seen from the front door, over the main road which ran by at the end of the street. Looking with older (and possibly wiser) eyes, I had more of an understanding why the more mature residents of the town took such issues with these new houses. It wasn’t that they were badly designed, by any means, (they may have even been nice), but they stood at particularly noticeable odds to the houses next to them. Maybe the residents who still lived in the older buildings could at least take some solace in the fact that their homes went unscarred by flames all those years ago. I suspected this hadn’t cross their minds, and they had jumped on the bandwagon, pitchforks in hand.

  The very last house on the lane backed onto a small field, in which a few chickens sporadically pecked the ground. The field, at the boundary, was lined with a fine wire fence (protecting the hens from all the usual suspects). This house was smaller than the rest, and, looking through the open curtains, I could see only a small kitchen and living room, with, presumably, an equally-small bedroom and bathroom on the first floor.

  I approached the door, looking around for signs of witnesses to this visit, and may (or may not) have seen curtains shake in neighbouring houses. As always, nothing escaped the attention of the residents of Redbury.

  I could hear movement inside. I knocked firmly on the door, ready to confront my second melancholy mother of the day. Immediately, the movement stopped, and I could hear no noises from inside the house. There didn’t seem to be any attempt from the resident to move towards the door, so I knocked again.

  Still, there was nothing.

  After the third knock, a voice rang out, shakily. ‘Who is it?’

  Finding that I hadn’t prepared an answer to this question (and therefore could give no reason for the woman to talk to me), I gave the first response that came to mind. ‘My name is Anna Tyndall. I knew your son.’

  Again there was silence from inside the house for a few moments. Then, I could hear the rattle of multiple latches being unlocked from the inside. The door opened to reveal a woman in an old purple cardigan, tilting her head to one side in an ineffective attempt to hide the scars that ran down one side of her face (and, presumably, body).

  ‘You knew William?’ she asked. ‘Knew him or knew of him. Everyone seems to know of him, I’m yet to meet someone who actually knew him.’

  I had to continue my ruse or lose face. ‘I did know him. Not very well, but I knew him.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

  ‘I was just wondering if I could speak with you. About him.’ She continued to give me the same blank expression she’d given me since opening the door, so I continued to bluff. ‘I’ve noticed something strange that’s been happening around town, which might have had something to do with William.’

  This caught her attention, and she narrowed her eyes. ‘What sort of “strange thing”?’

  ‘It has to do with the foxes.’

  The woman nodded and stood aside. She’d heard this (or at least thought this) before, then. Maybe I was on the right path to finding Laura. Maybe I was just on the path to learning the truth behind the pretensions of my home town. Either way, I had motivation to continue; if I could find those answers, maybe I never needed to come back here again.

  The mother of the dead boy lead me silently through to a dust-coated living room. I pretended not to notice, and she pretended not to care.

  ‘What about the foxes?’

  ‘Well, I’ll be totally honest, I was hoping you could tell me. All I know is that they died with those red eyes.’

  ‘Around the time of my son’s accident, you mean.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I mean.’ I opened my bag, pushed the necklace to one side, and removed the old photographs. I placed them in front of the woman, expecting shock. I received no response at all. She simply picked them up, surveyed them, and placed them back down on the coffee table.

  ‘You’ve seen this before?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. There were a few of them. Around the time of…’ she trailed off. She reminded me of Joyce, both mothers of lost children, although I still couldn’t imagine a world in which Laura didn’t return to us. ‘I’m sorry, what was your name again? Annie?’

  ‘Anna. But Annie’s fine too. Could I ask yours?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘As if you don’t know. As if everyone doesn’t already know.’ She paused. ‘…But I appreciate being asked. Rebecca. Rebecca Myerscough.’

  ‘It’s good to meet you, Rebecca.’ I forced.

  ‘You too,’ she forced back at me. ‘Why are you asking about the foxes? This was over a decade ago.’

  ‘My friend’s dog died. He had the same eyes.’ I muttered, thinking of lovely Max.

  ‘And this was back around the time of the fire?’

  ‘No, this was just the other day,’ I answered.

  Rebecca Myerscough leant forward, trembling. ‘The other day?!’ she shouted at me, ‘What do you mean the “other day”?’

  I was taken aback. ‘Just, like, Wednesday. Why is that important?’

  ‘If this is a prank, if you’re winding me up, then you can’t hold me accountable for what I’ll do to you,’ she shrieked.

  ‘I’m not!’ I replied, afraid, ‘I’m not messing with you! This is why I came to you, I thought you’d know something.’

  Rebecca calmed down slightly sinking back into her seat, and I could see the anger on her face be replaced by fear. ‘If what you’re saying is true, then you need to get out of this fucking town now and never look back. If it’s happening again, then you’re in danger, we’re all in danger. Oh, and don’t you… don’t bother telling anyone, cos they won’t believe you, nobody will believe you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rebecca, I don’t understand. What’s happening again? Why would I be in danger?’

  ‘You think my son - my poor, sweet, innocent son - would do what he did? Would do it unless something made him? He was timid, kind. He wouldn’t do this. He used to feed those very same foxes, just at the end of the garden. He was so full of love. Something made him crazy! Something made him do this!’ She sputtered this at me with dangerously brown teeth. ‘He was not an evil boy. He was not. Whatever did that to him then, if it’s back, then there’s no telling what it’s going to do to this town. Get out of here. Get out of here.’

  I paused, taking an effort to recollect my poker face and mentally overcome my fear at the woman’s actions. It looked as though my instincts were right; the red eyes were important. But how did that relate to the fire? To a mind going sour?

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ I continued, ‘if it’s so dangerous here… why don’t you leave?’

  ‘I can’t leave. I
can’t leave my son,’ she responded, outraged.

  ‘But, Rebecca… I’m sorry, but he’s dead. He’s gone. Whatever else may have happened, that still holds true. Maybe it’s time you thought about moving on elsewhere too.’

  Rebecca shook her head aggressively. ‘No, no, no! You don’t understand!’

  ‘Then make me understand, Rebecca!’ I found myself also raising my voice.

  ‘No, no! You won’t understand, or you won’t believe me! They never do, they never do!’ The woman in front of me was physically shaking. She hadn’t been like this when I’d arrived. I’d done this to her.

  ‘Ok, ok. I’m sorry, Rebecca, I’m sorry to bring this up.’ I tried touching her softly, reassuringly on the shoulder. She recoiled from me, eyes lit up with fear.

  ‘No! No! Just go! Go!’ she shouted at me.

  ‘Ok, Rebecca, I’m going to go, but I’ll be back, ok? I’ll be back with answers. I promise.’

  The woman nodded frantically at me, and I hurried out of the house. I only hoped that I could make good on my word.

  7

  Youth

  I had my first encounter with drug culture when I was thirteen. My school friend’s older brother was very fond of weed. As is often the case with siblings, the younger looked up to the older, and of course, this habit rubbed off on him.

  My friend paraded it around like he’d been doing it for years. It wouldn’t have been considered “cool” to not really know what he was doing. At the time, I fell for the charade hook, line and sinker - a phrase that would be particularly fun to mime in actual charades, which I am still fond of to this day.

  Looking back, I was a fool. Anyone could have seen that his preparation was fumbled, with our first shared spliff being particularly loose, and anyone could have seen that he was not a regular user - as indicated by the over-exaggerated inhale, as well as the aggressive coughing that followed.

  I had no pretensions of being seen as the ‘cool drug user’, and so my approach to my first spliff was sincere and honest. This information, that I was new to all this, didn’t seem to be a particularly big deal at all, and was simply shrugged off.

  Being that we were only thirteen, we were still just about at the age where parents would cook dinner for their children and often their friends. Paranoid that we’d be found out, my friend sat nervously through dinner, hoping that the bloodshot eyes wouldn’t be a giveaway. It being my first time, I was oblivious to this, and was purely enjoying my merry mood.

  Having not been properly briefed on post-smoke protocol, I gave it away when I told my friend’s mother that the chicken nuggets had been cooked to absolute perfection and that they tasted like heaven.

  I wasn’t allowed around to that friend’s house again for a long time, and, looking back, it’s likely that it was because my friend placed the blame entirely at my feet. If I was still in touch with this friend, maybe I would now bring this up - but, as is the case with many of my school friends, we had drifted apart.

  My reason for recounting this is, once again, to provide context. In the events that follow, I was not simply having a bad reaction to my first experience with illicit substances. No, in fact, this particular substance was unlike I - or a vast majority of the international population - had ever encountered before.

  I stumbled out of the church and the light of the low winter sun stabbed me painfully in the eyes. I recoiled, shielding myself from it, and slowly allowed my vision to adapt to the sudden change in brightness. I scanned the ground before me for signs of - presumably greasy - teenagers. There were none in sight. Of course, if my day so far had been any indication, I should have known that it would not be this simple.

  To my right, the graveyard came to a near stop as it reached the winding road. To my left, towards the forest, the graveyard continued a considerable distance, stopping at the edge of the treeline. Despite being a fairly large plot of land, it was densely populated with graves. Inspecting some, I found some going back as early as the sixteenth century, with many such people reaching the ripe old age of fifty-four before calling it a day.

  I skirted around to the back of the church, where Art had said the teenagers often hung around, but sadly I again had no immediate luck. I scoured the ground at the back of the church for signs of life. There were none. Only birds tweeting, a squirrel hopping across the graves, and red eyes staring at me from the treeline.

  I turned to run once again, but a doubt in my mind stopped me. Summoning courage from a place I’d never before reached in to, I turned for a second look. On closer inspection, it was possible that I wasn’t looking at eyes at all. They seemed to be more orange than red, and drifted further apart the more I stared. As I continued to study the trees, I recognised the glowing orange dots for what they truly were - flames emanating from overclocked cigarette lighters. This could only mean I’d found the kids I was looking for.

  Was this what I’d seen before? Was Art on to something? Maybe I was going mad. It was certainly more likely than there being evil ghost-like shadows haunting the woods of the English countryside. Looking back, I almost managed a smile at the idea.

  I stormed towards them.

  ‘Oi, you!’ I shouted.

  Dark shapes in the distance suddenly jumped into action, and then, relaxed once again. I could hear distant murmuring from their direction.

  ‘Yeah, you guys, hold up!’ I shouted again, this time raising a hand and waving at them.

  I could hear laughter - the sort that stunk of general disdain, which only teenagers could manage. They were probably smirking too.

  I grew closer until I could make out their faces. Disappointingly only one of the three was categorically greasy, although a strong case could have been made for a second. They sat, or leaned, on various fallen branches, smoking badly hand-rolled cigarettes.

  ‘Laura!’ I called out, ‘Laura Kamryn, d’you know her?’

  ‘Maybe,’ the tallest of the three began. He must have been their leader. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m her boyfriend- well, husband- well, future-husband, at least.’

  ‘Yeah, alright, make your mind up, city-boy.’

  I assumed “city-boy” was an insult, but it didn’t seem like the right move to argue with them straight off the bat.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Yeah, alright, we know her. You jealous?’

  ‘No, I’m not-’ I caught myself, realising I was falling for their trap. ‘Yes. I’m very jealous.’

  They laughed. ‘Thought so, city-boy.’

  ‘I heard she spoke to you guys, I’m just looking for her, that’s all,’ I pleaded.

  Two of them laughed again, clearly completely devoid of empathy. The third, medium-greasy, looked down, suddenly fixated on his boots. I made him my target, and started towards him. As I did so, I caught a whiff of the smoke of his cigarette.

  ‘What is that?!’ I exclaimed, ‘That smells awful.’

  The teenagers shared a knowing look, and laughed once again.

  ‘It’s Root. You wanna try it, city-boy? Can’t promise you’d like it. Made for real men, it is.’

  ‘Sorry, no, I’m not a smoker. I’m just looking for Laura. Please, can you just… can you just tell me what she was speaking with you about? Please?’

  ‘Yeah. Alright. We’ll make you a deal. Share one of these-,’ he pointed at a particularly loosely-rolled joint, ‘-with us, and we’ll tell you what the deal is.’

  This was precisely the sort of peer pressure that many personal education lessons at school had prepared me for. All I needed to do was say “no”.

  ‘Fine,’ I answered, and I snatched the joint out of the tallest’s hands, lit it, and smoked my first in many years.

  Then, I had four legs, I had no arms, and I was in Joyce Kamryn’s house.

  And suddenly I was moving. Expertly. Jumping three feet into the air, like I’d been doing this all my life. And maybe I had. Or I hadn’t. I didn’t feel in charge of my own actions. Although I l
ooked through these eyes, I had no control. My existence was one of observation and nothing more.

  I was eating. Out of a bowl. The food was dry.

  I looked up at Robert. He was younger, thinner. Or… perhaps… hadn’t he always been this way?

  Floorboards creaked. I jumped with fright.

  Robert walked towards the kitchen door. As he got there, a figure reached the room’s threshold from the other side.

  I ran up the stairs, knocking a stray shoe to one side, clumsily.

  I turned around at the top of the staircase, now that I was safe, to see who the figure was.

  Oh. It was Anna. Was that Anna? She didn’t look her usual self either. Smaller, younger. Or, again, hadn’t she always been this way too? It didn’t matter; Anna was friendly. I was safe.

  I curled up into a ball by the radiator on the landing, shut my eyes, and tried to sleep.

  There was commotion downstairs. Had I been asleep? What had I missed?

  I stood up, and crept towards the top stair, peeking my head over it to safely survey the situation.

  Robert was holding Anna in place against the kitchen counter. She squirmed. Was he hurting her? I couldn’t tell from my vantage point.

  His hand was over Anna’s mouth.

  I could hear movement. It was slow, quiet, regular.

  To my left, a Shadow grew closer. My fur stood on end.

  Was it that damned dog again?

  No.

  Was it Anna?

  No, this person’s hair was blonde - not Anna’s brown.

  It was Laura. Wasn’t it? Her eyes glowed red. Had I seen that before somewhere? Her skin rippled and pulsed like water. No. Not water. Smoke. She wasn’t herself at all. She was grey. She wasn’t normally grey, was she? Despite all these changes, it was undeniably my friend, Laura. My “friend”?

  The Laura stood at the other end of the landing and stared, equally transfixed on the continuing movements downstairs.

  A distressed squeal from Anna.