Fan Fears: A collection of fear based stories (18 page)

FOUR

She remembered little now, and what she did came in flashes. There were tears, those never went away. Nor did the sense of betrayal. Something, though, had changed. There was a white light, and Doctor Goodfellow standing above her in surgical scrubs, his face covered by a blue mask. He was explaining something about the procedure she was about to undertake. She knew the word he had used, but could attach no meaning to it.

Lobotomy.

It was just a word now. A collection of letters. She suspected once, she knew what it meant. Not anymore. Now she was a shell, a drooling incontinent thing that existed in the space between sanity and madness. She liked it there. She didn’t have to think, didn’t have to worry. When it was mealtime, someone spoon fed her whatever flavourless mush passed for food. She ate because she was told to. Most days, she would just sit and look out of the window at the gardens. Watching the birds without even knowing what they were. The lobotomy had taken almost everything, but even in such a broken state, there was still something left. A memory. That of a fourteen-year-old girl being ushered out of a room where a woman was screaming as a doctor and a policeman looked on. She remembered the quick glance, the lock of eyes between child and adult.

It was the look of recognition.

If she were able, she would have vocalised it, complained and argued, but she had been reduced to nothing but a fleshy bag of bones drooling and sitting in its own mess as it ate its Jell-O and looked out of the window. The sun caught the window pane, enabling her to see her reflection. Her face was thin, the scar on her head still fresh, eyes glazed and vacant. But she still knew who she was. She had a name.

She was Christina.

SUBMITTED FEAR: WRONGFUL INCARCERATION

BONUS STORY ONE

WITH THESE HANDS

Helen was dead.

Brixton felt the scream coming from deep in his core and unleashed it into the warm December Tobago night. He had been thrown clear of the car when it had rolled, and escaped with only a few minor cuts to his hands and face. Some might call it a miracle until they saw the pulpy mess that still sat in the passenger seat of the mangled Mercedes. It was hard for him to believe that the lifeless pulped meat was once his wife. A woman he had loved, a woman who he had shown his innermost self, the one normally hidden away from people he knew. He sat in the road, vaguely aware of the growing crowds, locals mostly, their rusty, old-fashioned cars abandoned as they surveyed the scene. It was a clear night, and glass shimmered on the ground, miniature diamonds of artificial light surrounding his dead wife and the remains of their hire car. He stood up, unable to believe the contrast in their fortunes and hating the bitter cruelty of the trick God had played on them. Christmas abroad, a way to try and repair the fractured foundations of the relationship. He looked into the car, blonde hair split, brains exposed to the humid night, and was dimly aware there would be none of that. No bickering, no compromises in order to find common ground. She was now a shell, a lifeless thing made of flesh. A puppet without strings, a marionette without its master. Everything that she had been was now gone. He clenched his fists, looked up into the cloudless star littered sky and screamed again.

TWO

“What happened?”

Brixton looked across the table, locking eyes with the police officer. His name was Peters, and he was a large man, narrow sloping shoulders giving him an apish appearance. His skin was dark, eyes curious and  unsympathetic. Brixton glanced at the man's hands and the gold wedding ring on his finger. He, at least, would be going home to someone at the end of his shift. For him, it would be business as usual.

“Mr. Brixton?” Peters repeated

He blinked, and tried to focus his attention on the officer and his questions. There was a noise, an annoying buzzing that was starting to irritate him. He glanced to the strip light overhead, the foggy ghosts of long dead flies inhabiting its outer casing.  “We were on holiday,” he croaked, forcing his attention back on the officer. “Christmas in the sun. We thought it would be good to leave the cold of home behind.”

“We recovered your passports from the car. You’re English?”

Brixton nodded.

“Mr. Brixton, I need you to verbally respond for the benefit of the recording.”

He glanced at the tape recorder on the table, then at the Peters, who was unreadable. “Yes, sorry. We – I’m from England. Both of us are. Were. This is so hard.”

“I understand how difficult this is, but I need to know what happened, Mr. Brixton.”

“I know you do. I’m trying.”

It wasn’t the answer expected of him, but it was the best he could manage. He was aware that he would have to discuss it, and as much as he was desperate to put it off, knew it would only work for a while. 

"We were arguing," he said, placing his hands flat on the table, marveling again that the few grazes and scratches were his only injuries from the crash.

"Go on,” Peters said, shifting position.

"We'd been out for a meal on the other side of the island. We'd been having problems at home, and this was supposed to be us getting back on track. Funny thing is, she didn't even want to come here. She wanted to stay closer to home, go to the coast maybe. It's all-"

“Mr. Brixton.”

Brixton stopped speaking and stared at Peters, trying to make him understand how difficult it was for him. “Sorry, I’m getting side-tracked.”

“I understand. Please, tell me what happened with the accident.”

Brixton cleared his throat, and then stared at his hands. Unable to handle looking at how little pain he suffered from the crash, he moved them under the table out of sight. “We were arguing. I get jealous, paranoid sometimes. Anyway, I thought she had been having an affair with a guy she knows at work. That was why we came out here. A last ditch attempt to fix things. Anyway, I was sure she had been looking at this guy in the restaurant. I lost it and we were asked to leave.”

“Which restaurant?”

“I can’t remember the name. Does it matter?”

“We need to know. For the investigation.”

“I wasn’t drinking if that’s what you wanted to check. I didn’t have a drop.”

“We know. We tested you at the crash site. Do you not remember?”

Brixton frowned and looked at the table top. “Of course. Sorry, I forgot.”

“We can get the details of the location later. What I want to know is what happened that caused you to crash.” The officer said, still calm and patient.

“As I said, we had argued in the restaurant about her looking at this guy. We were asked to leave, and the argument continued in the car on the way back to the hotel. It got heated. She was screaming at me, I was screaming at her. I suppose I must have been speeding. Maybe because I was angry. Anyway, I lost control of the car on a bend. It happened too fast for me to react. I felt it start to flip over, then…nothing. Next thing I remember I was lying in the dirt surrounded by people.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“I don’t know what else I’m expected to say," Brixton muttered. "Will I go to jail?"

Peters shook his head. “No. You were sober, of sound mind to drive. This looks like nothing but a tragic accident. You are free to go Mr. Brixton.”

Brixton made no effort to move. He stared at Peters, trying to force out the words.

“Was there something else?”

“Can I see her?”

For the first time, Peters looked uncomfortable. He shifted position and looked at the clock on the wall. "I don't think that's a good idea, Mr. Brixton."

“Please, I just…. I need to see her.”

“Don’t put yourself through it. Perhaps it would be better to remember your wife the way she was?”

“I can’t,” he choked on the words, and felt the hot sting of tears. “Whenever I think about her, all I can see is her sitting the wreck, all broken. That’s not her.”

“Mr. Brixton-”

“I can’t remember her. Don’t you understand what I’m saying? I don’t remember what she looks like.” He wiped the palms of his hands under his eyes and stared at Peters.

“I understand, Mr. Brixton, really I do. But trust me when I tell you I’ve been doing this a long time. It’s better for you to remember your wife as she was in life, not in death.”

“Are you saying I can’t see her?”

“Legally I can’t stop you, Mr. Brixton. All I can do is offer advice. Will you please get some rest first? Go to the mortuary tomorrow? Much better to do such things with a clear head.”

Brixton considered for a moment, turning his attention inward. He was exhausted. The problem was, he couldn’t imagine where sleep might come from. “Okay,” he said, slumping in his seat. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Good idea. Would you like me to have someone take you to your hotel?”

Brixton shook his head. “No, I’ll walk for a while then get a taxi.”

“Are you certain?”

"Yes. I'm sure. Can I go now?" Brixton said. He couldn't breathe, was too hot. He didn't like being so close to Peters. He hated the shifty way his eyes moved like he was always looking for a lie.

“Go ahead, Mr. Brixton. We will need to speak with you again before you leave. Are you happy for me to hold on to your passport until we speak again?”

Brixton was hardly listening. He was only concerned with getting out of that tiny room. “That’s fine. I’m here for another two weeks anyway, or at least, I was supposed to be.  I don’t know what will happen now, or where I’ll go.”

“It takes time, Mr. Brixton. Horrible things like this do get better. I know it’s a cliché, but it really is true. Go get some rest.”

Brixton was hardly aware of anything as he was led out of the police station. He stood outside on the pavement, the harsh white glow of the lights inside at his back throwing his shadow into a waif-like skeleton across the road ahead of him. It was a warm sticky night, and even though it was late, people still went about their business. People whose lives hadn't been destroyed in one crazy incident. He started to walk, aimless and without purpose. Staring at his feet and trying to untangle the knots in his brain. He didn't return to his hotel but found himself on the beach staring at the pale white moon, and listening to the gentle lap of the ocean on sand. It should have been beautiful, but for him such things would always be associated with horror.

He didn't remember moving, but when he next became aware of his surroundings he was standing outside a low yellow building with cracked and peeling paint. A tired door with a grubby window pane between him and the dark and shadow-shrouded space beyond. He stared at it, the ghost of his reflection staring back at him with just as little idea about what to do or where he was.

“Are you alright?”

Brixton blinked and looked at the boy beside him. He was in his mid-teens, dark skinned and skinny. He had kind eyes and an old faded scar on his right cheek.

“I’m fine," Brixton said or thought. He still wasn't sure.

“The mortuary is closed, sir.”

“I know.”

Brixton sensed the boy's confusion and felt obliged to elaborate. "My wife is in there.”

“From the crash earlier?”

Brixton looked at the boy. His gaze was met without fear.

“Yes. How did you know about that?”

“Everyone knows, sir. This is a small island. Also, my father owns this business. He attended the accident earlier.”

“What’s your name kid?”

“My name is Kendon, sir. Can I ask you why you are standing out here at night? I thought you were a robber, not that there is anything to steal inside.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to rob anything. It's just… This is the only place I feel close to her. I just wish I could tell her how sorry I am. How much I regret being so paranoid and causing the crash.”

“Guilt is not an easy thing to live with.”

Brixton looked at the boy. He seemed too young to deliver such a statement. “Not much I can do about it now.”

“What if I said I could help you?”

Despite the stifling heat, a chill swelled inside Brixton. He stared at Kendon, who was looking right back at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have money?”

“What kind of question is that?”

"Just answer," Kendon said.

“Of course, I do.”

Kendon nodded. “Bring five hundred American dollars here tomorrow night. Midnight.”

“Now it sounds like you’re trying to rob me.”

Kendon shrugged. “I’m not. I’m trying to help you.”

“Five hundred American is what, three grand over here?”

“That’s the price. If you want my help, that’s what it will cost.” Kenyon was flat and calm as he said it.

“To do what?” Brixton said, wondering why he was still even having the conversation.

“You will find out if you come back. It’s up to you.”

“Midnight tomorrow?”

"Yes," Kendon repeated. "Bring the money and I will help you."

There were questions that Brixton wanted to ask, but before he could, Kendon slinked away into the night, gone like some kind of apparition.

THREE

There was no sleep. He had sat in his hotel room, surrounded by Helen’s things, constant reminders that she was gone forever. The lipstick on the dresser would never be used again. The new clothes she had bought for the holiday which were still in her suitcase would never be worn. Brixton had sat on the bed, watching night fade into day, and then back to night. He made the decision that he would go and meet Kendon sometime before dawn. The money didn’t matter to him, nothing mattered to him. Already Helen was fading from his memory, she was becoming distant, a ghost from his past. Whenever he tried to think of her, all he could see was the bloody mop of blonde hair slumped in the passenger seat of their mangled rental car. He reached the mortuary just before midnight. As it had been the previous night, it was shrouded in darkness. A flicker of something in his belly, nervousness, or maybe even fear almost deterred him and caused him to turn back when Kendon appeared from the side of the building. 

“Did you bring the money?” he asked, looking beyond Brixton towards the street. Unlike the previous calm demeanor, Kendon was tense and appeared nervous.

“I did.” Brixton pulled the bundle of notes from the oversized pocket of his shorts and handed them over. Kendon counted it, then shoved the notes into his own pocket.

"Wait here," He said, then moved back into the shadows behind the building.

Brixton waited, dimly aware that if this had been some kind of scam, he had fallen for it completely. He was psyching himself up to follow Kendon into the shadowy darkness beyond the building when he reappeared.