Final Chapter 29 Part 2

I pull the bedroom door closed.  The house is wreathed in silence. To my ears the door’s click sounds likes a gun shot.  I pause, waiting for a torrent of footsteps, accusations, pleadings and allegations; but nothing, just quiet resonating round.  I hoist the bag on to my shoulder and grip the package in my left hand, the right takes the other bag and I carefully hobble across the landing and step by step take the stairs. 

The caution is partly due to the package, I feel it needs protecting, but mainly because the movement reminds me of last night’s beating.

            I reach half way and look back up the stairs.  Momentarily, in the half, grey light I catch a face peering down between the spindles of the landing balustrade.  There seems to be a question forming across the light, pale face.  I briefly catch it, one of concern and hope for her parents, coloured with the unspoken knowledge that for reasons beyond her understanding the hope maybe misplaced.

 

Ellen hitches herself up on the table. And for the first time I take in that she's in a red dress that gracefully follows her contours. It rides up a bit as she sits. I admire her legs.

            “Decisions Mr Dafoe.”

            “What?”

            “About that,” she points to the bag.

            I swivel out of the chair and perch next to her on the table. We watch the fire.

            “Why are you doing this Ellen?”

            “You saying I’m not the gangster’s moll type?” She sigh. “You’re right.” Her hand slides over mine. “I had debts to pay and let’s say little choice in the matter.”

            “McClelland?”

            “Senior. Though the son's like the father.” She brushes her hair from her face. “He wants his it back.”

            A log suddenly sprouts a flame.

            “But it is not his, is it. It wasn’t his father’s either.  Why should he have it?”

            “It is not yours either, Tony. You think he won't come after it?” She looks at me, head askance, and touches my ribs. “See? “Think what it might've been if I'd not turned up.”

            I shrug, and hope my face masks the pain. “He cost me my job Ellen.  Look, it's severance pay.”

            “You can say that Tony now but will you honestly think that in a week, a month, a year? And do you think he's going to forget?”

            Something inside is ticking, I know she's right. My chest tightens.  It hurts.

            “The money's not his you’re right Tony but that doesn’t make it yours.” She squeezes my hand. “It belongs to...”  She looks at me, fire light reflected in her eyes.

            A burst of applause and laughter seeps into the kitchen. I close my eyes and somewhere in the mix I can hear Bill. I look at the money.

She's here with Jonah; that's where it began and this is where it ends.

There’s a flicker of memories; Richard and Jonah closer friends than me.  So that's why they're here, potential investors; me, well my investments gone.

            “Love's a decision, Tony and she's made her decision.” Ellen's slides off the table, twisting so she’s facing me, her arms envelope me. She catches the question in my eyes. “Feminine intuition” she whispers, but with the good grace of not saying it with a smile.  “It's gone, if it was ever there at all.”  Ellen releases me. “See decisions to make.”

            “I can give it back to McClelland.”

            “Yeah, you could but do really want to do that. To give it back to that thieving thug of a man?”

            “No, but if I'm not going to keep it and get him off my tail...”    

            “Give it away Tony, give it away.”

            “To whom?” The police?”

            “Oh, I love a man who's so grammatically correct.” And she kisses me, quick, almost furtive but stimulating. “No, stupid. Believe me it will end up with McClelland.”

            “OK what then?”

“You know the answer Tony.” She picks up one of my hands and places it on my heart. I do know.

“But what about you Ellen? What will happen? You’ll be safe?”

            She backs off, “thank you for your concern,” she bows, “I'll be OK. The debt was with the father, you saw junior's response to me when we met at the wake?” I nod, “and he sent those guys, as much for me as you. He thinks I'm a money grubbing slut, so he’s quite keen to ditch me.”

“Yeah?”

“ And I'm not his type, Tony, so I'll be OK.”

            I frown. It's not the prettiest of descriptions. She reads my concern. There's another kiss.

            “Trust me I'll be OK.” She steps back from the table. “So, if you're not going to keep it, it's not going back to McClelland,” Ellen's counting off theatrically on her fingers, “and the police is a no-no, that leaves...”

            “Those it came from but...”

            “I know it could’ve come from any one of a thousand dodgy deals, but think, what's your connection?”

            It's my turn to look askance. The words form slowly. “The stu...”

            Ellen's smile is electrifying. 

 

A few days ago it was easy, to maintain a steady job, to do what I know and to hanker after something and someone that was simply beyond reach.  Perhaps not the most satisfying or complete of lives I admit but it was my life, I knew it and understood it.  It was codified and referenced, neatly ordered and catalogued.  I knew where everything fitted and could recall each neatly compartmentalised part.

            And now, I'm starting out again.

            I clear the bottom of the stairs and make my way to the kitchen.  The lounge doors open revealing last night's debris.  The hall clock softly chimes 8 o'clock, it’s slow. Looking at the mess I realise only the brave will be up before noon. I nudge the kitchen door open. It’s just as it was like last night; two chairs by the fire, which is now grey and black ash.  I dump stuff on the table and walk over to the fire.  I draw the poker from the fire irons and prod the ash.  It rustles and crackles and there amongst the flakes are orange sparks which glow intensely as they are introduced to the air.  I reach into the basket full of old newspaper and kindling, pull out a sheet, crumple it and toss it on to the embers.  It lies there dormant, tightly screwed up.  Nothing happens. For the first time I catch the chill of the room.

            I dig into my pockets: three letters: Richard and Alison, Bill, and Ellen. I place them on the table. My hand lingers on Bill's. This is how it ends. Not to love is as much a decision as to love.  I hesitate, shiver against the cold and a question occurs, what if someone else reads the notes? What would the consequences be? I glance round the kitchen again.  The paper on the fire has blackened and unfurled. As I watch it bursts into flames.  It makes me smile; heat from the embers can set you burning again. I take Ellen's and Bill's letters, pocket Ellen's and drop Bill's into the fire, staying long enough to watch it burn.

            This is a clean break.

            It's cold outside but not intimidating in the way it's been the past days.  The grey sky’s fractured, there's a hint of sunlight. 

            I crunch across the snow to my car.  I pop the boot and dump my stuff in including the parcel, pausing to check if anyone else is about. Apart from the animals it is just me. I slam the boot shut. It makes my ribs ache and for a moment I’m squirming round the ground again. The new snow hasn’t completed masked last night’s scuffle. With a sigh I heft the boot open again and retrieve the package. It's too precious to leave unwatched; it'll ride up front with me. 

            I work my way behind the steering wheel, sliding the package into the passenger seat.  I pat it imaging that I can feel the bold, black lettering on label.  I catch myself seeing Liz’s face when she opens it up.   Return it to whom it belongs, not easy but she'll know what to do. 

            The engine turns over once reluctantly kicking in with a splutter.  I'm moving. I reverse the car and then I pull it round and through the gate in a gentle ark.  I feel Ellen’s letter in my chest pocket. I leave the yard, catching a glimpse of the startled sheep in the byre.  I wonder when they'll get their food this morning, from someone with a head full of sand and little less than they joy of world I imagine.

            I look in the mirror at the receding farm house.  One of the curtains twitches. It's Bill. 

My mind races, somehow she has sensed me go.  I imagine hurried footsteps down the stairs with a startled Jonah in her wake. They're not careful and cautious like mine, but careless, clattering towards the front door, which is swung open wide to embrace the cold and the yolkish sun, there's a shout that's wrapped, muffled and absorbed by the snow.  I let my eyes drop from the rear view mirror. When they return it's not Bill. It’s Ellen standing there, quiet and serene, with a look of confidence and certainty that says ‘soon’.  I blink and there's no-one; just a stone house, cradled in snow, drawn in, safe and secure, containing its hopes and fears.  And I'm on the outside, leaving.

            I go cautiously following the snowy ruts, grateful to find that the two gates on the track are open. I turn onto the road, sliding into the marks that others have left.  The silent stone walls that run alongside give security; I'm locked on a path.  The sun's gathered in strength, healing the broken and fragmented sky.  The rolling grey clouds have been replaced by liquid blue which is slashed by pure white vapour trails.  I reach out and touch the package.

            The road twists and suddenly the sun is directly in front of me, a bright orb. I scrunch my eyes up so I can track the road.  For a moment, along with the coloured spots that sit in front of me I catch another car driving cautiously behind me, two men in the front, dark heavy set blobs in the bright light.  I catch my breath, look again and there's nothing there. I sigh, gently press the accelerator and feel the car slowly pick up momentum.