Grandmother (part 2)

The journey home was even better than the one there. The thought
that he was finally rid of the old battle-axe, was the icing on the cake.
It was like all his birthdays had come at once.
I know. I think I'll go to the pub, he thought to himself. A trip to the
local pub was something that he hadn't done in years. Ever since she
had come to stay. The sort of atmosphere that you get in a pub was
exactly what he needed. He could do with a stiff drink.
On entering the establishment, he noticed that the decor was just the
same as when he frequented there as a young man.
My God...It seemed like a lifetime ago.
With a nod of his head, the barman said. 'I haven't seen you in here
before. Are you local, or just visiting?'
He seemed friendly enough, Adam thought, but that's his job really.
Adam nodded a welcome back to the man. 'I've not been in here
for years.' he confessed.
The barman stood with both hands resting down on the pumps on
the edge of the bar. 'So. What's your poison?'
Thinking for a moment, he said. 'Just a pint of ale will do fine, thank
you.'
The barman smiled. 'Right you are, sir.'
After handing over his change and a pint of ale, the stout barman
rested his belly against the bar, leaning forward slightly.
Still smiling. 'So. What's brought you back here all of a sudden?'
Adam Beaumont stared down into his pint glass. 'A death in the
family.' he said, in a pretend, mournful voice.
The barman straightened his bulky form. 'Oh! I'm sorry that that's
what has brought you back in. Have the next one on the house.'
Adam thanked him for his hospitality, then perched himself onto a
barstool.
He sipped at his pint as the landlord made his way up along the
surprisingly quiet bar, talking to each customer in turn, aware that
he was the next in the line. He didn't mind though, as he felt quite
at ease in his company.
Finally reaching him. 'So then. A drink on the house wasn't it?' He
didn't hang around for an answer, just started to pour the ale into
the fresh pint glass before he'd gotten his answer.
Adam thanked him for the free drink.
Cleaning the top of the bar with a bar towel. 'No problem. I lost
my wife not so long ago. So I know what you're going through.'
He gave a consoling grin. 'Close were you?'
Taking another sip of his drink. 'It was my grandmother. She had
problems with her breathing. Something to do with her throat being
constricted.' He lifted the glass to his face, to conceal his widening
smile.
The barman noted his face hidden behind the glass. What he hadn't
noticed though, was the broad grin that hid behind it.
Placing a hand on the man's shoulder, he said, in a deep but gentle
voice. 'Don't you feel sorry about it, son. It wasn't as if it was your
fault, eh?'
Shaking his head. 'No. It wasn't as if it was my fault, at all.'
He took a gulp of his drink, almost choking.
The landlord patted him hard on the back. 'Are you alright?' he
laughed. 'We don't want you popping your clogs aswell.'
Realising what he had just said, the laughter stopped. 'I'm so sorry,
sir. It was the wrong thing to say at the present time. I do apologise.'
Adam waved his hand in dismissal to the comment, trying to catch
his breath. 'Really, it's okay.'
The barman walked to the other end of the bar, the feeling of guilt,
obviously too much for him.
He could feel his shirt sticking to his chest. A quick glance told him
that the blood was seeping into the outer lining of his jacket he'd
put over the top of it, to hide the stains. He wished that he could
have stopped himself earlier. Left it at just strangling her, but all the
anger and hatred had rained down on the lifeless corpse from his
clenched fists. Now the blood was making its way through to his
jacket. He had to get out of there.
He stood up, thanking the barman over his shoulder as he slinked
out of the door.
Finding his car out in the carpark, he took off into the night.

Back on the road, he lit a cigar that he had taken after the incident
with his grandmother. He savoured every single puff of smoke that
whisped into the air around him. But before he'd had less than half,
he stubbed it out. It reminded him of her. That memory, he hoped
he would soon forget. There again, he couldn't begin to forget the
events that had led up to earlier.
He had just stepped through the front door when it started. Where?
Why? When? What?..The questions had been shot out at him like
verbal bullets.
He'd made them both a cup of tea, then went into the lounge to sit
down. A film that he had been waiting to see, was just beginning on
the television, so he turned it on. That sparked off more arguments.
More bad mouthing. He knew it would be relentless. Unless she'd
have her way, the barrage of complaints would continue.
Why are you putting the television on? You know it hurts my eyes.
Well! Are you going to turn it off? I don't give a rat's ass whether
you want to see it or not. It's too loud from where I'm sitting. I'm
well aware that I'm sat right next to it, don't think you can out-smart
me, boy. This is where I've always sat since I've been here. This is
where I'll always sit.
Spitting the tea back into the cup. 'My God! Are you actually trying
to poison me, boy? This tea is stone cold. I'm not dead yet. So get
me something hot.'
She sat up. 'What are you doing? Where are you going, boy? Are
you going to answer me when I ask you a question? You ignorant
little bastard. You're weak. A no-good loser. Sit down when I'm
talking to you, boy. There's no use coming over to take it away.
Don't you close the curtains, I haven't finished looking out of the
window yet. I said, put that curtain cord down.' All this was said
inbetween the weazing.
That was when he'd slipped the cord around her neck, taking in
deep breaths, as she tried to put up a struggle.
She gasped. 'You're weak, boy. You can't even do this right.'
That was her final speech, before expelling her last breath.
After the struggling had stopped, he struck out several times at
the wilting corpse.
He shouted out at the body lying at his feet. 'Weak am I? Well
not anymore.

He pulled up in the driveway, the gravel scrunching under the
tyres loudly, sounding his arrival.
As he stood at the backdoor, he reached out with his keys. A
clicking noise signified that the door was already unlocked and
was slightly ajar.
That's odd, he thought to himself. He could have sworn that he
had locked it before leaving. It must have just caught the latch,
and in his haste to bury the body, he'd assumed it had locked.
He pushed open the door, calling out incase someone was held
up in there, hiding, a burgler ready to pounce. Then he realised
that, even if a burgler was in the house, he would hardly wait for
him to come home, then announce his presence. Stupid fool.

Walking through the kitchen, he turned on the light switch at the
end of the dark hallway. It immediately illuminated the passage
before him.
That was when he heard it. A creaking sound coming from the
room to his left. The lounge.
Opening the door gingerly, he crept into the room. The shades
of light in the room, came from the bay window, and it was over
in that direction, the creaking came again. As his eyes adjusted to
the light, he saw, directly in front of the window, the rocking chair
swinging back and forth.
He wanted to turn on the lights, but was too petrified.
In the rocking chair, he could see the shadow of someone dark
and brooding, sat swaying with the motion of the chair.
He wished that he had the strength to switch on the lights, but a
foreboding held him stationary.
Still, the rocker made its eerie creaking sound.
It's her, he thought. It's bloodywell her. Back from the dead to
live on forever. No, it couldn't be. He had buried her himself. He
had the stains to prove it.
But, still the rocker creaked. Its noise reverberating in the walls,
the floor, surrounding him, crushing him.
He wanted to relieve himself in his trousers, but was too scared
to even do that.
Creak...Creak...Creak...
He couldn't take it any longer. He was suffocating.
Creak...Creak...Creak...
Stop it, he thought.
Creak...Creak...Creak...
He shrieked at the top of his voice. 'Stop it.'
The creaking stopped. He waited for a few moments, listening
intently, incase it resumed. It did not.
Making a quick leap for the switch, he turned on the lights.
As the lights flashed into life, he caught sight of the neighbour's
cat as it sped past him, leaving the chair swaying noisily.
A single heartbeat passed as he stood, transfixed, his arms now
cradling his shaking torso.
He let out a cry of laughter, as he noticed the vase of flowers set
on the window-sill, and the cardigan spread across the back of
the chair, which had given him the impression of his grandmother,
back from the grave. He wiped tears (whether from laughter or
fear he did not know) from his eyes.
Thinking that he had had enough excitement for one day, he went
to the doorway, switching off the lights behind him. As he was
about to close the door, he felt sure that he had heard something
in the room again. He turned, gazing back into the blackness of
the room. He thought that he heard a raspy breathing sound, but
dismissed it, blaming his over-active imagination. He closed the
door, and climbed the stairs to bed.

If he had remained in the room, for a short while longer, maybe
he would have heard the deep throated chuckling, and witnessed
the circle of smoke, as it rose into the air above the rocker.