Page 4 of Three Widows

She heard it again. Upstairs. Roman and Becky!

She took the stairs two at a time, almost falling over as her dress tangled around her legs. Fear gathered like a fluff ball in her chest, and without a thought for waking the children, she crashed into Becky’s room and flicked on the light.

The little girl sat up suddenly, squinting in the brightness. ‘Mammy?’

‘It’s okay, sweetie. Go back to sleep.’

She kissed her daughter, tucking the duvet up to her chin, turned out the light and headed to Roman’s room. Putting her head around the door, she allowed the hall light to spread into the room. Her son was fast asleep. She pulled his door shut and slid to the floor, relieved, listening to her heartbeat pound in her ears. The noise had unnerved her. Where was Mozart?

Wearily she stood, tucking the hem of her dress in her hands, and entered her own room.

There he was, sleeping on her bed. The little dog knew he wasn’t allowed there. She was about to wake him and shoo him down the stairs when she felt the negative energy in the room. It was too late to run, and she stood frozen as a figure stepped out from behind the door.

She made to scream, but a gloved hand covered her mouth, dragging her backwards against the wall.

‘Don’t say a word or your kids die.’ The voice was muffled behind the mouthless black hood covering the face.

She couldn’t scream or shout. The hand was clamped firmly on her mouth, almost covering her nose. She took a few frantic breaths, kicking her feet back against her assailant’s legs. The hand on her mouth clamped tighter, blocking her nose completely.

She tried to draw back an arm with the intention of hitting out, but she was getting weaker by the second. Her terror was such that she felt her bladder opening, powerless to stop the warm flush down her legs. It didn’t deter her attacker. The hand tightened again. Fear was a bomb in her chest ready to explode.

Her children.

They’d already lost their daddy; they couldn’t lose her too. Then she wondered why Mozart wasn’t barking.

With no choice, she allowed her attacker to walk her down the stairs and out the front door. She felt herself being bundled into a vehicle. Something sharp dug into the side of her neck. No matter how hard she tried to prevent it, she was going to pass out.

She couldn’t form a coherent thought; her brain was fuzzy. She was powerless to stop the darkness blotting the colour from her life.

* * *

A film of death slips over her eyes; dying ponds watered with tears. She is no longer able to widen them, to silently plead for freedom. When it suits me, I will give her the release she craves, but never freedom.

I can’t hear anything she might want to say, because layers of tape are stuck over her mouth.

The frog-like croaks that rise from the depths of her throat no longer escape her shuttered lips. The sound is like a mouse squeaking. Annoying the life out of me. Grating on my nerves. Raising tension in my muscles.

I like a little resistance from my prey, enough to mount a weak challenge. Weak being the operative word. They are all weak. I eye my second conquest, sleeping, but not for long. Just long enough to give me time to dispose of this one.

Walking barefoot around the room, I sense gravity pulling me towards hell. I don’t mind. I gave up on heaven a long time ago. The carpet beneath my feet was once soft, but now it is coarse and worn, hidden beneath the plastic sheeting. I idle at the mantelpiece and eye the bronze ornaments standing there, crafted locally in Ragmullin. I’ve owned others over the years, but I dropped them into a charity shop in town. I kept these two. For a reason.

I pick up the ornament of the little girl sitting on top of a pile of books. I assume she is unable to read, because she has no eyes. Where her eyes should be, there is just smooth bronze. Was the sculptor making a statement? See no evil? It is something I ponder in solitary moments. I replace it on the circle where it stands surrounded by dust.

Turning away from the mantelpiece with its unlit fire, I see her sitting there, skeletal, tied to the chair. She has served her purpose. Time for me to get dressed for the final act. I pick up the plastic pack containing the white forensic suit. It’s the last one, and as I tear it open, I mentally put it on my list next to duct tape. I know I’ll be needing them. I have another target in my snare. That excites me even more.

DAY ONE

3

At the roundabout, the driver hit the indicator signalling he was bringing his articulated lorry to the left. There wasn’t much traffic at six a.m. He shifted the vehicle into gear and headed towards the distribution depot. Further on to his right, Bay 13 was open and ready.

‘Unlucky for some,’ he muttered.

Before turning into the compound, he looked to his left over the mini roundabout to make sure the way was clear. Ragmullin was plagued with bloody roundabouts. Some smart-arsed council engineer must have thought they’d be great for a laugh. Graham Ward wasn’t laughing. He’d had to negotiate four after he left the dual carriageway.

He glanced towards the waste ground on his left. Something had caught his eye. A flag of yellow shimmering in the early-morning breeze. Probably stuff left over from the carnival. That had been a nightmare week. Caravans and trailers had lined the narrow road towards the depot. Twice he’d tipped the rear of the lorry against a caravan as he’d driven round that narrow fart of a roundabout.

He backed his vehicle up to the bay door, jumped down from the cab and lit a cigarette. It wasn’t his job to load or unload, so he wandered across the road and stood at the fence. Dragging heavily on the cigarette, he caught sight of what had alerted him while he was driving. He blew out a smoke ring.