Short story

Digge

Hi,

I would like to post this short story here. Warning: It is fairly dark and has some profanity. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you.




Arthur Conroy looked out at the westerly wind blowing through the grass outside and at the darkness slowly stirring over the mountains. Rain tapped on the window and the raindrops ran down the glass leaving cold streams in their wake. The trees outside were hunched over, old haggard men who had lived tough and laborious lives. Everything was worn down by the wind in this province of gale. He watched the rain drum on the roof of his car in the driveway and he closed his eyes tightly.
Arthur waited at the window as he did every evening, waiting for someone to come down the lane. He could not relax thinking someone might be coming. Occasionally people came, usually selling something or another. When he saw them on the lane he would leave the window and sit on his armchair in the living room and wait for them to go away. Sometimes they would knock more than once, but they rarely did. The drawers in his kitchen were full with flyers dropped through the letterbox by such people and though he never read them, he did not throw them away. Last week he saw a young man walk down the lane and though he sat in his armchair for nearly a half hour, he didn't hear a knock.

He had let the house go to hell. There were dishes in the sink which had been sitting there for so long that he thought it best to not disturb them in their habitat. Lairs of dust powdered the furniture and the worktops. The backsplash over the cooker was slick with yellow grease and in the living room, the wall above the fireplace was stained black with soot. He had tried to keep the house after Katie died, but it just felt like he was doing it to hang onto her. Eventually he thought he had to get on with his life so he stopped praying to her and he stopped keeping the house. The HSE sent a nurse out to him, to help him and make sure he was ok but after the first visit he stopped answering the door to her. He was fine well enough alone.

He left the window and retreated to the living room and he got himself comfortable in his armchair. He drummed his fingers on the armrest and waited as the clock ticked behind him. After an hour or so he closed his eyes gently and he drifted off to sleep. He slept there always now; his bedroom door hadn’t been opened in over a week. Sleeping in the chair was easier for him. He felt like he wasn’t committing himself to sleep. To commit to sleep was to stay awake for Arthur Conroy, blinking in the dark wishing it were day. His thoughts caught up with him when he tried to sleep, and he knew he had to stay ahead of them. His thoughts would have to work hard if they wanted to poison him.
As he slept he heard the clock tick endlessly behind him. He heard his loud croaky drawn out breath scraping at his throat as he exhaled. When he heard a different noise in the milieu he woke up confusedly, alone in the dark in his living room.
The front door clicked open and he saw a shape of a stocky man enter the house, through the stained glass on the living room door. The shape was distorted in the glass panels as it stood in the hallway. Arthur didn’t get up and he didn't panic though he knew what was happening; old men in remote houses were common targets for burglars. Another taller man jogged in the front door and had trouble closing it against the wind.
Check in there, whispered the stocky man pointing to the kitchen. He then turned and walked toward the living room door, his outline elongating in the stain glass panels as he got closer. He opened the door and entered and looked at Arthur sitting in the chair. He had a hammer and a rope in his hand.
Don’t make a sound, he said. Arthur looked at him. The man’s face was covered by a balaclava. Thoughts jostled for superiority in Arthur’s brain but none were daring enough to rise above the others, and so they all surrendered in stalemate. His mouth opened but not one word could escape it.
Hey, shouted the stocky man in a whisper. He’s in here.
The other man walked in from the kitchen and stood at the doorway. He shone torchlight into Arthur's face and the light impaled his eyes. Don’t you make a sound, he said.
Check the place, said the stocky man. I’ll stay with him.
The other man nodded and then pulled the torch away and walked down the hallway.
W-what do you want, said Arthur. He could think of nothing else to say.
Shhh, said the man.
Why are you in my house?
Say another word, said the man. I dare you.
Arthur shuffled in his chair. The clock ticked seemingly faster behind him and the rainfall rattled the window. He looked at the man and he could barely move.
If you try anything, I’ll split your crown, said the man.
I know.
Right, said the man. I told you not to say another word. He approached Arthur and raised the hammer up. He brought it down fast but froze it in mid-air. Something in him seemed to stop him. Arthur began to tremble.
Is that your car outside? said the man.
Y-yes.
The man looked at Arthur like he was garbage and then he turned away from him, toward the door. Hey, he whispered. Hey.
What, replied a voice from down the hall. Arthur knew the other man was in his bedroom.
Did you find anything?
No.
Alright, whispered the man to Arthur. Where is your money? He spoke the last words out loud, and as though some curse was broken by his voice, Arthur spoke loudly back to him.
Money?
The man slapped Arthur in the face, almost playfully but still hard enough to let him know he could hit. Arthur held his hands up to protect himself but the man grabbed them and pushed them down.
Where is it?
What makes you think I have money?
The man slapped him again, harder. Arthur felt something spark inside him, a ghost of the old rage that he had in him when he was a young man. The man read Arthur's face and he raised the hammer again. I hope you try something, he said. Just ****ing try something.
And just like a ghost having been seen, the rage vanished within Arthur.
I can’t find anything, said the other man. He was standing in the doorway shining the torch on the two of them. The stocky man turned to him and shielded his eyes. I’ll get him to tell us where it is, he said.
I don’t have any money, said Arthur.
The stocky man turned and slapped him. He pushed Arthur’s hands down from his face again and he slapped him harder. He threw the rope at the other man’s feet.
Tie him up.
Pat, I….
You told him my ****ing name. Don’t tell him my ****ing name. I said tie him up, so tie him up. No arguments.
Ok.
The other man tied Arthur to the armchair. He was strong and there was no give in the rope. When he was done he looped the extra rope around Arthur’s wrists and tied them to his legs. Ok, he said when he was finished.
Now, said the stocky man. You tell me where your money is.
Please. I live on a pension, I don’t have anything.
He slapped Arthur across the face again, hard. It stung his face like he hadn’t felt in years and his eyes began to water. I have nothing, he said. He began to cry and that surprised him most of all.
Right, said the stocky man. He crouched down and began to untie Arthur’s shoelaces.
No, said Arthur and he wriggled his feet.
Stop moving.
I don’t want to do this, said the other man.
I said stop moving. He raised the hammer and brought it down hard onto Arthur’s knee and he howled in pain.
Are you done moving?
Arthur nodded.
Good, said the man as he untied his shoes. You are going to tell us where your money is or I will break your toes.
Arthur shook his head. No, he said. No. Please. I don’t have anything.

******
Sonya sat on the couch, the glare from the TV casting shapes on the room all around her, like some barely visible blue inferno. She yawned and ran her fingers through her hair. She pulled her fringe down over the bridge of her nose and crossed her eyes to look at it, flattening it down with the palm of her hand. The front door clicked and she blew her hair upward, back to the top of her head.
Hello Pat love, she said. Pat shut the door behind him.
Well. Whats on? He threw himself down on the couch beside her and she exhaled as she shifted herself, annoyed at his imposition.
Nothing. Just flicking.
Is Sarah asleep?
Sonya nodded. She fought for a while, but she’s sleeping now. I brought her out in the chair and it tired her out.
Good.
Pat?
What.
Did you get paid today?
I did. He removed a bundle of notes from his jeans pocket and plonked them down on the coffee table.
Jesus. How much is that?
Over two grand, he said.
Oh Jesus Pat that’s great. We have to pay the doctor tomorrow, and the physio is coming on Tuesday. You’re a lifesaver.
Pat cleared his throat and scratched his head. He was bothered by her choice of words.
I’m sorry, she said closing her eyes tightly. I’m sorry I said that.
She stared at him and she could see he was lost in thought, staring blankly at the TV screen. She knew she shouldn't talk, but she couldn't keep her words in. You have to stop blaming yourself, love.
She reached out and touched his shoulder and he stood up abruptly. I’m going up to check on Sarah, he said.
Ok.
She watched him climb the spiral staircase and disappear upstairs. Stupid, she whispered to herself. Stupid.
About an hour later he woke her coming down the stairs, she had fallen asleep on the couch. He looked upset. He always looked upset now. He made his way slowly toward the couch and she sat up to give him room. I’m sorry love, she said.
Stop, he said as he sat down. I know you’re sorry. It’s ok.
He stared at the TV blankly, the lights dancing on his stubbled face.
Pat?
What.
Don’t get angry.
He dropped his chin into his chest and he massaged the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers. What is it? he said.
Where did you get the money?
Work, he said.
Working with Dessie?
Yes.
She stared at him as he gripped the bridge of his nose. She knew he was trying to show her that she would have a tough time getting answers out of him.
Until two o’clock in the morning, you and Dessie were out working? What were ye working at?
He didn’t answer.
It’s a lot of money for a days work, Pat. Pat.
What does it matter to you where the money is from?
It matters to me.
No it doesn’t.
I don’t want you getting into trouble.
He laughed, trying to brush off what she said, but there was nervousness in there that was all too obvious to her.
Pat, please tell me. I’m worried.
He lowered his hand from his nose and he looked at her, and she could see him thinking it over. She knew from the look in his eyes that maybe she had better not know. Then he spoke.
I found him, Son.
Who?
He dropped his eyes from hers and he didn't speak a word.
You found…him? she said.
Yes.
Oh God. She recoiled from him and she sat up on the arm rest of the couch facing him, as though he had transformed into some primeval monster before her. What did you do?
I talked to him.
Did you kill him?
No.
Pat.
No I said.
How did you find him?
Sonya, I never stopped looking. Dessie helped me. We called all the mechanics in the province. All the panel beaters. All the scrapyards. Eventually we found one who could help us. The car was sitting there, Son, in front of his ****ing house.
She closed her eyes tightly. Oh my God, Pat. She wanted to ask so many questions, though deep down she knew she would be better off ignorant. Pat, did you kill him?
No Son. I didn't kill him.
Did you hurt him?
He looked back at the TV screen and rubbed at the bristles on his chin. Yea, I hurt him.
Sonya felt slightly elated by this admission, amidst the disgust she was feeling in the pit of her stomach. What did you do?
Son, please.
What if he goes to the guards?
He won’t ID me. My face was covered. I didn't mention anything. No one else lived there – he lived alone.
I don’t like this, Pat. I don’t like when you and Dessie get together.
Dessie has nothing to do with this, Son. He helped me like a good brother.
What is his name?
It doesn't matter.
It does to me.
Arthur. His name is Arthur.
Tears rolled down her cheeks and her nose was running and she wiped them all up on her forearm. I didn't think he would be called Arthur.
It doesn't matter what he’s called.
It matters to me, Pat. He sounds old.
He is old.
How old?
I don’t know. Seventy. Seventy five maybe.
Oh God Pat, this doesn't feel right. What did you do to him?
Nothing compared to what he did.
I know, she said. That bastard.
A quick death would be too kind for that man.
What do you mean?
Nothing.
Please, Pat. Sarah is asleep upstairs. I want her to know that her Daddy is a good man.
I’m not a good man, Son. I never was.
Please Pat, tell me. What did you do?
We tied him up. To his armchair. Maybe someone will call and find him, maybe they won’t. I would say they won’t. I’ll leave it to the powers that be.
Jesus, Pat.
I’ll leave him like he left our girls, Son.
No, Pat. This isn't right. I need you to tell me where he is. Please.
He looked at her and there was disgust in his eyes, though she didn't know if it was with her or with himself. He stood up from the couch and he took his wallet from his pocket. He flicked through it and he pulled out a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it, and handed it to her.
You do what you want with this, he said. I’m going upstairs to Sarah.
She looked at the piece of paper. The address meant nothing to her; it was not in a town or village that she knew. She reached for her handbag and she took out her phone and she typed 112 on the screen but she didn't dial it. She stared at the scrap of paper until the letters blurred. She thought about that Spring morning last year. Pat was only two weeks out of prison. He walked the girls to school early so he could get to a job interview in town. He left them at the corner of the western road as he had always done when he was around. With their little footsteps they walked on together toward the school gates, their big backpacks up on their backs, holding hands in the morning sunlight. Pat only heard the car hit them and when he ran back to the corner he saw it speeding away. A red Ford Escort. Rebecca lay where she was hit, and though the car dragged Sarah some twenty feet it was she who survived, though wheelchair bound and brain damaged, doomed to live life as a spectator. She was never again the same girl and Pat was never again the same man. They all had changed that morning and everything in the world had changed for them.
Sonya walked to the kitchen, still looking at the address. She put her foot on the pedal of the bin and the lid flipped open and she held the scrap of paper over it as a tear ran down her cheek, leaving a cold stream in its wake.

GalwayGuy2

That's pretty cool. I like the dialogue, but I found the lack of qoutation marks confusing.

And I think it needs a bit of foreshadowing about how Arthur ran over someone. Doesn't have to be a big thing, just a little something to hint at what happened at the end.

I'm kind of confused though. Did Pat already know, or only find out when he saw his car? Because he was quite aggressive before he saw the car. I think ti would be quite menacing if he was moderately calm before, but when he saw the car he gets more aggressive. Although, it could have just been bravado.

Also, a knee injury is meant to be the most painful injury you can get. So, I don't think breaking someone's toes would be much of a threat after that. Perhaps twisting his arm and threatening to break his fingers would work better.

I like it. It's a nice twist on the pensioner invaded by thug's concept.

Digge

Thanks Galway Guy. I see what you mean about foreshadowing, but I didn't want to give anything away to tell the reader that Arthur may deserve what was happening to him. My aim was for the last paragraph to put context on the whole story. Perhaps Arthur's routine; waiting every evening at the window for 'someone', sleeping on the armchair, etc., might show a man who is wracked with guilt and not just eccentric.

Pat already knew about the car. Since the accident he had been calling all the mechanics/ panel beaters he could find, probably to see if any of them fixed up a red ford escort (there would have been dents). Pat asked Arthur if the car was his merely to hear him confirm it. The burglary aspect was partly a red herring in case Arthur went to the Guards/ partly because they did actually need the money. You are spot on about the knee injury, they are pretty sore!

Thanks v much for reading and for the feedback.

Rubecula

It is not too bad Digge but the use of "these things" would improve the reading experience I think. Maybe also an empty line between too. But nice stuff.