When Evil Wins

When Evil Wins

By S. R. Woodward

This book is copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior written permission of the author.

In this work of fiction, the characters, the places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Janus – the Roman god of doors and gateways

Acknowledgements;

Many thanks to those who shall be unnamed for their support in this endeavour, which has taken quite a few years to reach.

For those that will be named – so you are;

Barry – cheers geezer, much appreciate the input regarding dead bodies.

Paul – brother-in-law supreme, thanks for the info about fire investigations.

And finally my wife, Yve, who has spent many a solitary evening whilst I’ve shut myself away to complete this work.

“Come on Janus,” his father yelled at him in Polish. It was seven thirty in the morning. “It's time to get up and get going.”

Janus and his father were due to quote on another plumbing job; Ditton Court Road this time, in Westcliff, in one hour.

Janus got out of bed and made his way to the shower. He'd stayed at his father's house overnight due to the length of time he'd worked the previous day. Normally he would have gone home but this time around he’d been too shattered to do anything but crash out.

Another day and more money
, he thought to himself.
Plumbing! Fantastic! Sometime soon I'll be out of this and doing my own thing — sometime soon
, he consoled himself.

After breakfast Janus and his father jumped into the company van and made their way to their first appointment of the day.

When they got to the road and eventually found a free space to park they pulled up. Leaving the van, the tanned, older, white haired man and his son made their way up the slightly inclined, tree-lined hill towards the Maitland house. The house was set back from the road on a sharp bend and almost obscured by a tall and uncared for hedge that separated the plot from the rest of the road. Pushing open a stiff wooden gate Janus and his father made their way up the short path through an equally unkempt garden and rang the bell.

 
Andrzej Malik had not met his client yet, he’d only talked with Mrs Maitland over the phone, and all he knew was that the woman required her bathroom to be finished.

Receiving no instant response Andrzej knocked on the front door this time, a bit harder than was really required.

Eventually a pale woman, somewhere in her mid-thirties, with shoulder length jet black hair answered the door.

After their introductions Jacqueline Maitland, opened the door further and let the father and son team in.

“Show me where the work you need done is please,” Janus's father said in his not so perfect English.

“It's up here, Mr Malik,” Jacqueline Maitland responded in a flat and dull tone. She seemed unhappy.

Jacqueline Maitland led Janus and his father through a short, dark brown and beige tiled hallway to the stairs and up to the bathroom.

The house was dingy, the decor being a mixture of racing green panels below a dado rail and the skirting boards, banisters and balustrade a deep and rich, heavily waxed brown oak. The walled side of the staircase was of oak panelling.

With appropriate lighting the internal decor could look astounding but the way it was now lent itself to a general sense of gloom that seemed to permeate every part of the house.

Jacqueline Maitland pushed the door to the small bathroom and it swung open revealing the job Janus and his father would have to take on if they were awarded the business.

The bathroom looked as if someone had started a refit but had given up half way through.

Janus's father walked in to assess the job they’d be quoting on. Jacqueline Maitland left them to it, making her way back downstairs.

“This looks like it's been left a very long time Janus. Just look at the rot,” Andrzej said to his son returning to his native tongue after their prospective client had left.

Andrzej Malik did try to stick to using English, he was a British citizen now, but whenever there were any complex ideas or observations to get across to his son or just something that needed to be said quickly, it was much easier for him to use his first language. He pointed to the rotten floorboards around the bath and toilet. Janus nodded at his father's assessment.

They made their way back downstairs and entered the living room, where Jacqueline Maitland was finishing off a crossword. She looked up; misery could be seen in her eyes.

“How much then, Mr Malik?” she asked.

“Mrs Maitland,” Andrzej started in his Polish lilt, “it seem that the bathroom is been waiting for a long time to be fixed. I think, to fix, it will not be cheap.”

“I know,” she said, sighing, “Can you do it?”

“Mrs Maitland, I assure you this is not better than my skills to do, I also have a very good son to help me,” Andrzej continued in his pidgin English.

“When can you start?” Mrs Maitland asked.

“I look at my calendar now,” Andrzej Malik said. Janus knew that this was one of the usual ploys his father used to secure a contract, and he knew what was coming next. Andrzej turned to Janus, “Are your days free soon son?” his dad asked.

“If I remember correctly I'll definitely be finished on my current job the day after tomorrow,” Janus replied.

“Son, it is obvious that Mrs Maitland is been with this bathroom for a long time. Can you not change your work?”

Janus got out a small notebook to peruse his fictitious job schedule and glanced at it.

“Dad,” Janus started, “I think I can change things so I can start tomorrow, if that’s alright with Mrs Maitland.” Janus wasn't happy about fictionalising other work, but his father insisted upon it as it was only a way to secure a job; something he'd been told many times.

“Mrs Maitland,” Janus's father addressed their potential customer, “do you think tomorrow will be possible for us to start?”

There was a slight glimmer of hope in their customer's demeanour. “That would be very good,” she said.

“Okay. Tomorrow,” Janus’s dad agreed. “Son, your times, rearrange them please.”

“Okay, Dad. I’m sure the Smiths won’t mind this slight change in the schedule at all.”

With the act played out Andrzej and Janus left the Maitland house.

The following day Janus and his father turned up at Jacqueline Maitland's house early. This time their client opened the door promptly.

“It's so good of you to do this,” Jacqueline Maitland said in an almost cheery manner, but the barely disguised dark rings under her eyes spoke of something else.

“That is what we are paid for,” Andrzej replied.

Janus was often astounded how his father never seemed to pick up on the underlying emotional states of the people they came across through their work. They walked into the house and made their way to the bathroom.

There was so much to do, the tiling hadn't been finished, the plumbing for the bath and toilet were bodged with gaffer tape and mastic. All the plumbing had to be removed and replaced.

Mrs Maitland had purchased new faucets for all the bathroom furniture and even had a new bath sitting in her garage.

Andrzej started work carefully chipping away at the tiling. Janus was left with removing the scrap and dumping it in the skip they’d hired.

By midday, after five hours work, the bathroom was stripped clear, ready for the makeover. As the afternoon turned into early evening Janus's father had finished his work and all that was left was the final clear up. This was Janus's responsibility.

“Janus,” his father said speaking in Polish, “I've got another job to start soon and I have to organise the scaffolding for the work on the outside. You finish up here. Okay?”

“Of course,” Janus replied, sighing.

Andrzej left and Janus continued humping the rubble down the stairs to the skip and the other general tidying, which was always part and parcel of a refit job.

The time was coming up to seven in the evening and finally Janus had finished. He walked down the stairs and looked around the door into Mrs Maitland's lounge to say good-bye. She was sitting on a sofa looking terribly distressed.

“Are you alright?” Janus asked, entering the room; his caring nature getting the better of him.

Jacqueline Maitland looked up, eyes despairing and hesitating, wondering whether she should say anything.

Eventually she spoke; “No. I'm not alright. Does that answer your question?” she replied sharply.

“I didn't mean anything by it…… it's just that you look so sad. Have we done anything wrong?”

“No… I'm sorry,” she said, “it's just… It's just that my husband was going to make the bathroom the best room in the house,” Jacqueline Maitland finished, tears welling up in her eyes. The blackness that had overshadowed her life since her husband had disappeared, though diminished, was overwhelming when she had to think back.

In that moment Janus was stuck; not sure what to say or do. He almost turned to leave, then thought better of it and walked over and sat down in the chair opposite her.

“What's wrong?” he asked, unsure whether he should pry.

After a short pause Jacqueline Maitland replied, “My husband went out for some taps but he never came back,” the truth of the matter coming to the fore.

“When was that?” Janus didn't want to ask but he had to know.

“About a year ago.”

“And you haven't had the bathroom done for that long?”

“No!” Jacqueline Maitland was sobbing hard now.

Janus, wondering what he could do to placate the upset woman, looked around the room hoping to find something to distract her from her misery; he noticed a picture of a young man on top of the television.

“Is that your husband?” he said, pointing to the picture.

“Yes,” Jacqueline replied. She got up and went over to the picture, picking it up and looking at it longingly. “This is my husband.”

“Where is he now?” Janus asked, curious.

“I don't know. I told the police he'd disappeared, but they've not been able to find him.”

“Have you tried the Missing Persons Bureau?” Janus continued.

“They can't find him either.”

“How long ago was this Mrs Maitland?” Janus asked.

“It's a year, I just told you,” she said, a quick, tight lipped, joyless smile gracing her face for a fraction of a second.

“Sorry, of course you did,” Janus said, annoyed that he'd come across as someone who didn't listen. However, Mrs Maitland didn't seem to take too much umbrage at his obvious faux pas.

She handed the photograph of her husband to Janus.

***

Janus's mind's eye whited out like an explosion of light from an old fashioned camera’s flashbulb and he was no longer in the room with his father's client; he was watching Jacqueline Maitland's husband getting into the family car.

Stephen Maitland reversed the car out of the drive and started his journey towards B&Q but as he approached the turning for the store he didn't stop.

Janus saw tears well up in Stephen's eyes as he passed the turn off for the DIY superstore. Their client's husband continued driving. He was now heading for Asheldham, to a quarry, a deep quarry filled with dark and icy cold water.

Janus was aware of a great pressure on Stephen, not a pressure from water, but the pressure of debt with no way out; a secret gambling habit that had got out of control.

Stephen Maitland could not pay for the renovations; Stephen Maitland could no longer pay for the mortgage. The only way his wife would be able to survive this mire of his making was if his life was voided and his insurance paid out.

The car made its way up an old gravel access road to the quarry; the driver ignored the danger signs which signalled an abrupt end to the track. The car's momentum tipped it over the edge of the 300 foot man made elevation.

***

Janus blinked as his normal vision returned, and as he focused on Jacqueline Maitland the sad certainty of the events surrounding the disappearance of her husband were now known to him.

Stephen Maitland hadn’t known he wouldn't be found and didn't know his wife wouldn't receive anything until he had been found. Stephen's goal, barring his death, was to make sure his wife benefited from his insurance.

If it wasn't for Janus, Stephen would have been lost to his wife, and to the fine print of the insurance policy, indefinitely.

“Mrs Maitland,” Janus started, “I know you're not going to want to hear what I'm about to say but,” Janus paused, “I'm sure your husband is dead.”

“How dare you. What would make you want to say such a thing?” she retorted. But it wasn't with conviction.

“I'm sorry, Mrs Maitland. I don't want to upset you but some things must be said.” Janus had already decided to keep the knowledge of her husband’s gambling habit to himself.

“No. I'm sorry, Janus. Deep down I think I knew, but the police haven't found anything yet, though I've never truly been sure. It's been so hard this past year.” Jacqueline Maitland paused for a moment then frowned deeply. “Why do you say this?” she asked forcefully, suddenly suspicious of Janus’s intentions.

“I don't know how I know,” Janus lied, not sure he should go into any depth about his ability, and not sure he was even doing the right thing, but he felt he had to continue. “Your husband died drowning in Asheldham quarry. He drove his car into it.”

Mrs Maitland didn't make any comment. Janus thought he noticed a slight lifting in her demeanour. He hoped it wasn't his optimism making him think he’d done the right thing.

 
Janus and his father had finished the work on the bathroom and they were no longer needed. Janus got up to go, making his way to the front door, wanting to leave Mrs Maitland with her thoughts. She followed.

“Goodbye, Janus, and thank your father for his work.”

That was the last thing Mrs Maitland said to Janus. She shut her front door. Janus left, the job was done, and he hoped his father's client could find solace in the knowledge that her husband's final resting place was now known.

***

Janus's visions had become stronger and more accurate as he’d matured, but he was still shocked when it happened; there were never any signs as to when it would.

He’d endured the curse of second sight for a long time. It had started in early childhood, albeit not as developed as it was now in its intensity and accuracy.

The difference now, was that he knew what the signs and visions were about and what they meant, to a degree; he no longer suffered the ridicule and bullying he'd gone through as a child in Poland. He'd learnt to keep thoughts of this peculiar nature to himself, most of the time.

He hoped that one day he may be able to use this unasked for skill somehow and perhaps people would take him seriously, seriously enough to believe he was at least clairvoyant to some degree.