Fairwood (a suspense mystery thriller) (10 page)

She shook her head.

“We can lie low no problem,” he put his arm around her, they both turned towards the silently moving water, to the stretch of green grass that seemed to go on forever on the other side of the bank. “I think we’re safe here.”

***

“Hello there!”

Pandora nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d been sitting on the bank of the river, staring at her own reflection, lost in her thoughts, when the voice from behind her nearly sent her sprawling into the clear waters.

She turned, startled, to see a man walking towards her, a wide smile on his friendly face, a fishing rod and a tackle box in his hands.

Pandora opened her mouth to reply but her words fell short, dissipated into a mumbling drizzle. She clawed at the ground to get to her feet as he approached.

He was wearing a fisherman’s hat, a series of corks bobbled from strings around the brim. A pair of sunglasses perched on the elongated bridge of his nose. He wore a casual blue and white striped sleeveless shirt, his darkened arms exposed to the sun.

He put the box down on the bank, swapped his rod from his right hand to his left and then offered the free hand to Pandora. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

She shook. His grip was relaxed, softened. His palms were coarse, riddled with callouses.

“Yes,” she nodded, still taken aback. She wasn’t expecting anyone to be nice in this town, let alone approach her with a broad and happy greeting.

Dexter needed to use the toilet. She said he should do it behind a tree that was the benefit of having a penis after all; he said that although that may be the case, he still needed to take a shit like any woman would. He told her to wait for him, said he would hurry back.

“Out here by yourself?” he asked, looking out toward the river.

She nodded, followed his eyes. “You fishing?” she hated small talk, was never really any good at it. It was pointless and she preferred to avoid it, but she felt a social need in this case. Besides Dorothy, he was the first resident of Fairwood to talk to her; the least she could do was reciprocate.

“Yeah.” He paused, “Well, kinda.” He gave her a cheeky smile, flashed something sinister in his eyes. He moved towards her, close enough for her to smell a mixture of coffee and alcohol on his breath; to catch the warmth of his body heat and the slight odour of scented shower gel and shampoo.

She took a step backwards.

“But not really,” he said, popping his eyebrow up and down.

She looked beyond his shoulder, towards the clearing, to the ground where Dexter had disappeared to. “Oh?” she spat distantly, an anxious fear creeping into her tone.

He nodded, a lustful slyness in his eyes. She could feel him almost pressing against her. He leant forward. She readied herself to attack; she didn’t want to but she was confident she could incapacitate him if need be.

She felt his breath on the side of her face as he leant in. “
Don’t tell the wife
,” he whispered. “But I’m really here just to get away from her.”

His smile turned into something else, something warmer. He pulled away, moved to the box he’d rested on the floor. With her heart beating like crazy and her fists clenched by her side, she watched him remove a few cans of beer from the cooler before closing the lid and sitting on it.

“Truth is, there’s no fish in this river.” He cracked open the can and sighed pleasurably. “But she doesn’t know that.” He smiled; Pandora smiled back, unclenched her fists and moved towards him.

“Want one?” he asked, giving her a can.

She accepted it. She didn’t want it, but by taking it she felt she was apologising for preparing to castrate him when he was just being friendly.

He shifted along on the box, gesturing for her to sit. She moved a hand to tell him it was okay, but he didn’t see. When he looked up at her, a smile on his face and a space next to him, she felt obliged to sit.

He took a sip from his beer, his lips sucking noisily on the edge of the can. “So, where’s this husband of yours?” he asked.

She looked across at him, raised an eyebrow.

“Ah,” he waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t look so surprised. Fairwood is a small town, word gets around.”

“He’s popped back to use the toilet,” she said.

“There’s plenty of trees around, hell, even the river. Nothing beats pissing in the river, if you’ll excuse my French.”

“I think it’s a…” she paused, trying her best not to speak French. “A number two.”

“Ah,” he gave a knowing nod, drank some of his beer and then shrugged, “well if it’s good enough for the animals...”

She chuckled, she liked him. There was something so pleasantly dismissive about him, like a cynical and grumpy old man without true cynicism or grumpiness.

“So, why so eager to get away from your wife?” she wondered.

He gave her a wry smile, stifled a burp with the back of his hand and waved his wrist in an apologetic gesture. “She’s a good woman, don’t get me wrong, but she talks. A lot.” He nodded to himself, raised his eyebrows in contemplation. “I love her, but love doesn’t make it easier to listen to her nagging all day.”

“How long have you been together?”

“A long bloody time.” He laughed, gave the river a meek smile and then changed the subject, his eyes to the skies as he took a thirsty gulp. “What about you?” he wondered. “You been with your fella long?”

“A few years,” she said, unwilling to go into details.

Their eyes locked, they exchanged a smile and then they both turned to look towards the river. To the glistening waters, the green fields, like banks of carpeted earth that stretched as far as they could see.

She took a small sip of her beer, sighed deeply. “Do you live far from here?”

He shook his head. “Not far enough.”

She flashed an amused smile. “You think it’s wise coming here? What if she decides to check up on you?”

He made a dismissive sound, shook his head. “She won’t.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I know her. She doesn’t care much, she’ll be happy with the peace.”

“Would it not be better to take a trip somewhere else?”

“Somewhere else?” he asked, looking slightly baffled.

Pandora nodded, held his gaze. “Away from Fairwood,” she clarified.

He furrowed his brow, gave her a momentary stare of confusion and then shook it off. “So, how long do you two plan on staying in this fine town of ours?”

She frowned, pondering on the change of subject. “Not long,” she said eventually. “We’ll be leaving soon, I think.”

He gave a little chuckle into his beer, popped a few of the foam bubbles from the rim. “Leave?” he shook his head. “You can’t leave.”

She turned to him, a smile on her face, expecting to see it returned. She watched him take a long drink, expected him to clarify, when he didn’t she asked, “What do you mean?”

He turned his head to stare at her. The smile had gone from his face. He looked serious, bland. He didn’t answer, didn’t seem to want to attempt an answer.

She stood, feeling uneasy again. She straightened herself, feigned an exaggerated yawn and a stretch, took a few steps away from him. “I better be going now,” she said. “See what’s taking him so long.”

He nodded, lifted his can to her in a salute, the smile suddenly back on his face. “You have a good day now.”

She smiled back, held up her own can and pointed to it in a gesture that thanked him for the drink, then she left. She dumped the can, barely touched, into a bin on her way. She fired a look over her shoulder before she disappeared, watched him curiously as he put his empty can down, picked up another and continued to drink and stare. She shook her head, gave a gentle shrug and then headed for the bed and breakfast.

***

Dexter looked for Dorothy when he returned to the bed and breakfast, he didn’t want to drift in unannounced. It was technically a business and he was a customer, but the building was so homely -- it was her home after all -- he felt he needed to at least let her know he was passing through.

He couldn't find her in the entrance way, the dining room or the living room and didn’t want to venture into the kitchen. He couldn’t wait any longer, had to complete his morning ritual in the upstairs bathroom.

The bathroom was a little less extravagant than the rest of the house, it felt cold, untouched. The fixtures were a sickly yellow colour. A ring of rust wrapped around the base of the sink like a halo of scar tissue. A drab painting of a bored house hung above the bath; a frosted mirror, its painted edges flaked and chipped, hung from a frayed piece of string above the sink.

He liked to read when he sat, always had done. He wasn’t a big reader at the best of times, hadn’t read any proper books in years, but couldn’t resist the urge when he was sitting on the toilet. He spied a number of toiletries on a shelf at the back of the bath, stretched towards them, keeping his buttocks on the cold plastic seat. He paused when he heard a no
ise from outside.

Someone opened and closed the front door. The sound of creaking hinges and approaching footsteps kicking against the welcome mat was unmistakeable. The shuffling feet kicked themselves dry against the coarse mat and then began to climb the stairs.

Dexter sat upright, watching the closed door, beyond which the hallway twisted a few feet and then turned into the top of the stairs. The footsteps were laboured and heavy. He guessed they were male, a guess that was confirmed when he heard the climber clear his throat; a harsh, dry and crackling sound, like corn popping in a microwave.

He reached the top of the stairs and paused, Dexter felt his eyes staring at the closed bathroom door, questioning who was inside. He moved forward, one big step onto a creaking floorboard that groaned like an otherworldly spirit as his heavy foot tested the ageing beams.

He paused again, Dexter heard his second foot join his first, heard them both shuffle, heard him clear his throat again.

“Where are they?” the man asked.

His voice was as harsh and raspy as his throat-clearing. He sounded like a man who didn’t mind the odd cigar or glass of whiskey, a man whose throat had suffered under the indulgences of countless breaths of toxic smoke and high strength alcohol.

“Taking a walk,” he was surprised to hear Dorothy's voice in reply. She didn’t sound as pleasant and chirpy as he knew her to be. Her tone had taken on a heavy, nasally edge, but it was definitely her. He heard her shift across the corridor, from the back of the hallway -- where his and Pandora's room was -- to where the man was standing, just outside the bathroom door.

“Do they suspect anything?”

“No.”

Dexter knew they were talking about him and he was intrigued to find out what they were talking about, but he couldn’t control his bowel movements. He had been holding it in when he heard the man climb the stairs, now it was desperate to escape. He clenched his sphincter tight, lifted his cheeks off the cold rim of the seat.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He muttered something, his voice passing through the door as a bass-filled drawl.

“They going to the pub tonight?” the man asked, his tone serious.

“I told them, they should--”

Dexter couldn’t hold it in anymore, it escaped of its own volition. The plopping sound as it splashed into the toilet was enough to halt Dorothy in her tracks. Dexter cursed under his breath.