Marilyn (13 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

Andrew Dunn brought Jack in close for an encouraging, father-like hug before he sent him on his way downstairs. He watched as Jack limply descended, barely managing to place one foot in front of the other.

Andrew left the hallway at a workable pace, paying no attention to the tightness in his chest or the burning ache in his thighs. He silently slipped sidewards through his bedroom door that had been left ajar, overlooking the unmade bed, and the floor that was littered with the previous night’s clothes. He completed the length of the bedroom obstacle course in five huge strides, reaching the corner cupboard without emptying his lungs of the stale air they held on to so dearly. He covered the brass handle with his hand and opened the door, pushing against it with the opposite hand, limiting the creaking of the hinges. He stepped into the cupboard, being sure not to stand on any of the temperamental boards. Gaining four inches on his tiptoes, he reached to the top shelf and pulled down a hand-carved wooden gun box that Julie had had specially made for their anniversary a few years back. He scrambled his fingers across the shelf, his nails catching loose splinters until he found the key.

He carried the box awkwardly to the unmade bed and dropped it down onto the mattress with a heavy bounce.

Andrew admired the engraving on the top of the box for longer than he should have. His name was etched across perfectly, “Andrew Dunn, forever and always mine”.

With his thick fingers he fumbled with the miniature key, rotating it this way and that until it slipped into the lock. He turned it, hearing the sound of the small but intricate wooden lock inside. He flicked the lip up. There it was, in pristine condition, not so much as a fingerprint or particle of dust dirtied the polished metal. He took a few slow, deep breaths, calming himself. He held a flat hand over his chest, feeling the palpitations, but he pushed on. The gun was loaded, so there was no need to check. He hauled it from the box with both hands and ran a finger across the barrel.

It was heavier than he remembered.

THIRTY-NINE

Elwood Bailey and Sheriff Rupert John Russell courteously escorted Marilyn through the main quarters of the station. Her legs were weak, with every step she took they seemed to shake, starting from the heel upwards. Elwood held onto her arm, making sure she was as steady on her feet as possible, and R.J. walked a few steps in front, leading the way.

Davies was sitting down fiddling with the walkie-talkie, turning and twisting knobs and dials. He stopped what he was doing and respectfully got to his feet, bowing his head until she had passed, and then sat back down.

They reached the end of the station. R.J. opened the break room door and stood to one side, politely, allowing Marilyn to pass and enter first.

     'Thank you,' she smiled.

The room was small and musky, but cosy and warm. It was quite welcoming, in fact. Historic paintings of the town filled the walls. Things hadn't really changed that much, the buildings were still the same old structures. Some places hadn't even bothered to change the signs, deciding to keep the original style from over a century ago. The floor was covered with an out of place lush black carpet, it was clean and looked new. A counter with a sink, kettle and microwave sat above a small fridge freezer in the corner of the room, just to the left of the sofa.

Elwood walked over to the sofa, still attached to Marilyn's arm, and helped lower her down until she was sat comfortably. Sheriff Russell watched from the doorway.

'I hope this will be all right for you, Marilyn. Like I said, it is a very comfy couch.'

Marilyn placed both hands, palm down on the cushions and pushed, shakily.

'It'll do just fine, Sheriff. Thank you.'

R.J. pointed and nodded his head.

'There's a blanket folded and hanging over the back of the sofa just behind you, if you need it. Try and keep warm and get a little sleep. OK?'

     'Thank you, Sheriff. I'll do my best,' she promised.

     Elwood reached over and retrieved the blanket that was slung over the back.

'If you need anything, anything at all, Marilyn, we'll be just outside in the next room,' he advised, as he planted it on the free cushion.

Marilyn smiled.

'Thank you, Elwood. I mean it. I don't know…'

'Shh… now. There's no need. You can thank me later. Just get some rest.'

Marilyn yawned loudly, sucking in the musky air, following up with a feeble chocking noise.

'Remember what you promised me, Sheriff. Anything at all and you come and get me.'

R.J. smiled.

'You've got it, Ma'am. Would you like me to keep the light on?'

'Yeah, I think so. Thank you.'

Elwood was the last out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Alone again, Marilyn attempted to lie down and get comfortable on the sofa, but it was unavailing. The cushions were brown and prickly, like lying in a bed of limp thorns. She couldn't relax. She tossed and turned, kicking her feet out and slaying her arms in any direction that felt better than the last.

Marilyn pulled the blanket over her up to her neck. She was not cold but she couldn't control her shivering, or the nervous twitches that came in long uneven waves.

    She turned once more and closed her eyes, the cushions seeming to accept her and her troubles. They moulded themselves around her, shaking body, allowing her strife to seep into the bothersome fabric, absorbing her heartache and sadness before finally granting her permission to drift off into a short, repressive sleep.

FORTY

The tyres spun, going nowhere but deeper into the mud. The engine had never been revved so hard, smoke was billowing from under the bonnet, forming in thin swirls that got carried away with the wind. With all the commotion of the weather, the engine, and the spinning wheels, Bennett couldn't hear his radio.

He shifted the gear stick from first into reverse in one last attempt to free the vehicle from the glue-like sludge. He revved with as much power as possible without blowing any major components or flooding the engine, even jumping back and forth in his seat as he did it. Mud flew from the rotating wheels in all directions, reaching heights of ten feet in a mini firework display of gravel and slop. It was useless. He wasn't moving an inch.

     Bennett shut the engine down and punched his steering wheel twice, feeling the crack through his wrist, all the way to his elbow.

'God-damn it, Bennett. Answer your fuckin' radio,' a frustrated voice boomed next to him.

Glenn jumped in his seat, his seatbelt giving way to his shocked lurch.

'Davies?'

He reached forward and snatched his radio from the dashboard. He back-combed his hair with his fingers.

'Davies, is that you?'

     'Yeah, you old bastard. What took you so long? Everything all right?'

Bennett smirked and laughed, finger-brushing his hair again. He gazed over at his gun as he spoke.

'You're not going to believe this, but I'm stuck in the blasted mud. There's no way I'm getting out of this. I'm going to have to go the rest of the way on foot.'

'Jesus, Bennett. Well, how far away are you?'

'I can make it in fifteen. I think,' he said, looking at his watch.

The radio went silent, then clicking and shuffling sprouted from the speaker.

'Glenn. It's Sheriff Russell. How you doing out there?'

Bennett cleared his throat and sat upright, putting on his best official, lawful voice to respond.

'Yes, Sheriff. Hit a bit of a hurdle. Looks like I'm going to have to make the rest on foot.'

'Yeah, I think that's wise, Glenn. Have you seen anyone, or anything at all suspicious, no matter how small?'

     ‘Umm, yeah. I think so,' he remembered, replaying his journey in his mind, like an old juddering movie where the projectionist had fallen asleep. 'A little while back there were some tyre tracks heading this way, but they've gone now, probably washed away in the rain.'

'Tyre tracks? Do you know what kind?'

'I'm afraid I don't, Sheriff. Sorry.'

'OK, not to worry, Glenn. Make the rest on foot, and be sure to radio in if you see or hear anything, anything at all.'

'Yeah, got it, Sheriff.'

'And, Glenn?'

'Yeah.'

'Be careful. If you do come across this O'Sullivan, approach with extreme caution. We don't need any dead heroes, got it?'

'Got it, Sheriff. Over.'

Glenn picked up his gun from the seat, clipped it into his shoulder holster, snatched his jacket from the back seat and awkwardly dressed himself like an armed contortionist, storing the radio in the large chest pocket. He removed the keys from the car and stepped into the outdoors. His face was hit from every angle with cold, sudden bursts of painful wetness. He pulled his hood over his head, and looked up at the sky, it was better than it was half an hour ago. He sunk his hands deep into his pockets and left the car behind, adventuring on foot.

FORTY-ONE

He raised the gun to waist height and pressed the numbing barrel against her temple, listening to her miserable sobbing. He pulled back the hammer with a steady thumb, waiting for the snap. The thrill coursed through him, sending his body into a small spasm. His finger trembled lightly, hovering over the trigger. He could smell her, smell her cold sweat and abhorrence. O'Sullivan closed his eyes and arched his neck softly, breathing in her nightmare through flaring nostrils, taking it all in. Bliss. He kept smiling. Even when the door opened.

FORTY-TWO

Marilyn was far away in a dreamless sleep, just breathing, just existing in a place where the nightmares and demons couldn't get her. A temporary, protective peace. Her chest rose and fell lightly and steadily under the succour of the blanket, almost in sync with the generator's whir. The knock didn't disturb her, but the opening of the door did. She sat up, pushing herself onto her side with her elbow, she stared bleary-eyed at the figure until her vision adjusted.

'Sheriff!' she uttered, hazily.

Marilyn heaved herself to her feet with a panicked look stapled all over her face.

'What is it? Is it Jack, is he all right?' she appealed, ripping the blanket from her disengaged body, swiftly coming to her senses.

R.J. Russell walked into the room, his footsteps nimble and muffled.

'Sorry to disturb you, Marilyn. My apologies,' he offered. 'Everything is fine. Just a bit of news and a change of plan.'             

     'Go on, Sheriff. I'm listening,' she said slowly, with concern.

Sheriff Russell walked as he talked.

'We've just got off the radio with one of our deputies. Turns out he's broken down. Well, stuck in the mud to be exact,' he said with a troubled and forced chuckle. 'He's en route to the farmhouse on foot as we speak.'

Marilyn sat back down, her abrupt ascent had made her light-headed and dizzy.

'How far away is he, is he close?' she asked.

'He's not very far, he should make it in fifteen minutes, give or take.'

'Oh..'

'That's not all.'

He paused.

'Our deputy spotted tyre tracks. Now, that could mean anything, but I'm taking this seriously,' he professed. 'I mean, I don't think O'Sullivan is going to come through town. So, I think our best bet is to make our way out to the farm house.'

Marilyn jumped up, forgetting her dizziness. She threw her arms around R.J's neck and brought him in, resting her head on his chest.

'Thank you, Sheriff.'

He rubbed her back, up and down, up and down, feeling more natural as he went on.

'You're welcome, Marilyn. And, uh, you can call me Rupert.'

'Thank you, Rupert,' she complied, admiringly.

She let go of him and took a step backwards.

'Are we leaving now?'

'Soon,' he confirmed. 'Just need to get a few things ready.'

'Are we all going? I mean, is Elwood coming, too?'

'I don't think I could stop him if I tried.' He laughed. 'Elwood, you know. I haven't known him for all that long, but he's a good man.'

'You're both good men, and I don't know what I would have done without either of you.'

The sheriff smiled, almost blushing, but hid it well.

'I've taken the liberty of getting you a few things. Shoes, you're going to need something a little more suitable if we're heading to the farm house, also your own radio, ya know, just in case,' he expressed, the tone swinging in favour of his serious professionalism. 'I'm not taking any chances. I'll explain everything else to you on the way. Come on, let’s get a move on.'

Marilyn followed R.J. out of the break room, their footsteps in unison as they trekked across the slime green tiles and through the jaundiced sparkle.

    'How long will it take us to get there?' she wondered aloud.

'About forty minutes,' he calculated. 'If we're lucky.'