The Midnight Hour (15 page)

It wouldn’t move.

He hissed a curse. It was frozen to the bottom of the freezer.

He pulled again. Nothing, not even the slightest movement that might have given him hope. But he couldn’t leave it there, not when he was so close.

He glared desperately around the kitchen, looking for something, anything that he could use to free the metal box. His eyes passed over the sink, and returned.

Hot water! Get some hot water in there, melt the ice a little, take the box and fuck off out of there.

He smiled, he grinned, he almost laughed. It was perfect. With the box frozen like it was she obviously didn’t check on it often. By the time she noticed it had gone his delivery would be a distant memory. The police would never connect him with the crime.

He let go of the handle.

His fingers wouldn’t uncurl.

A cold block of fear that could have come from the freezer itself slid inside him and settled in his stomach. His fingers were frozen in place.

He tried again, willing them to open so he could pull his arm free. His fingers might just as well have been severed from the rest of his body. They did not,
could
not respond.

The buzzing of the freezer began to grow louder.

At first he thought he was imagining it. Then he thought it was the motor picking up because the lid had been open for so long. But it grew and grew, louder and louder, the pitch rising. It reminded him of an animal growling, then screeching with rage.

He wondered why no one was hammering on the door asking about the noise. He wondered why the old woman hadn’t come running out of her bedroom. Perhaps it was all in his own head? Perhaps he was going mad?

Real or not, it deafened him and he tried to cover both ears with his one free hand.

Then something grabbed his other hand, deep in the freezer. A painfully tight grip around his wrist. And the pain began.

Ice cold tearing at his skin, ripping through his flesh, freezing the blood in his veins as it dragged itself up his arm.

He screamed, staring as his trapped arm turned blue, then white, crystals of ice forming on his skin, splitting, great chunks of flesh falling off like icebergs breaking free of the glacier. Beneath the skin of his shoulder he watched as his veins bulged, froze and burst through like ice-razors, sharp burning pain making his whole body spasm. There was no blood as the blood froze before it could run.

He cried, he struggled, he pulled. He felt tearing at his shoulder, searing agony as he tore free and staggered about the kitchen, blood now flowing freely, spurting from the ragged mess that had been his shoulder, spraying the walls, the floor, the  kitchen tops. His frozen arm stood upright in the freezer, a gruesome stalagmite.

Barely conscious he twisted away, tried to get away from the freezer, buzzing angrily that it had lost its prey. He lurched wildly and unknowingly onto the breadknife held outstretched by the now awake Veronica, hardly even felt the blade punch a hole in his stomach.

She pulled upwards, splitting him open, stepping back as his guts spilled onto the tiled kitchen floor.

Rick Bolger didn’t think anything anymore.

Veronica sat on the kitchen floor, still in her nightdress, pulling and pushing the hacksaw back and forth. It was surprisingly tough for young meat, and the bones were hard and healthy.

She placed the hacksaw on the bloody floor and wrapped the calf in clear film, placing it with all the other packages ready for freezing.

The chest freezer in front of her buzzed happily, its lid still open, its cool air flowing into the apartment like a soothing breeze.

Veronica frowned at the frozen arm jutting upwards towards the ceiling. She was leaving that until last. So much harder to cut when it was frozen solid.

The buzzing grew gently louder for a moment and the arm lifted and dropped heavily over the edge to the floor, bouncing and rolling towards her.

She smiled and whispered “thank you”. Now it would defrost. So much easier.

She picked up the hacksaw again, pulled it across the flesh of a skinny thigh. With so much extra food to be frozen she might have to buy a second freezer.

The freezer clicked and buzzed louder and Veronica Wilson smiled.

AWAY WITH THE FAIRIES

It was an animal. It was far too small to be a person
.

Yes, too small. But it had two arms and two legs, and it walked upright.

A nervous, embarrassed voice in the back of Ron Thomas’s head conjured memories of bedtime stories told to him by his mother.

Perhaps it was one of the fairy folk?

He laughed, the same laugh his mother used to give when he begged for the bedroom light to be left on, scared of the dark and the shadows and whatever might be hiding under the bed.

Get a grip on yourself Ron. You haven’t believed in any of that stuff since you were a kid!

Whatever it was that Ron Thomas had seen in a flash of his headlights, moments before the barely perceptible bump as his 18 wheeler truck ran over it, was dead now. Spread out on the highway behind him. It was 2am. He was crossing empty desert. He hadn’t seen another vehicle for over half-an-hour. He saw no reason to stop. He
refused
to find reason to worry.

It had probably been just another dumb cat, or dog, or rabbit, or
something
. It shouldn’t have been running across the highway like that.

He reached forward and flicked on the CD. The familiar sound of Nanci Griffith singing
Listen To The Radio
drifted round the cab and he smiled, relaxed.

Day after tomorrow he’d be home, sitting on his porch sipping a cold Bud, or maybe down at the Alligator Bar, playing pool with the boys and spinning tall tales about the jailbait hitchhikers he’d picked up on his latest cross-country trip. Best of all, he’d be seeing Mary again. Truth be told, even if he
had
picked up some jailbait hitchhikers, which he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have done more than give them the ride they wanted. Mary was the only woman he was interested in.

Couldn’t tell the boys that of course!

He checked his speed. Had to be careful. Cops were hot on speeding trucks, and the truck companies were quick to drop a driver with a reputation for cop trouble. This didn’t look like a place for speed traps, and other than an occasional dusty billboard there wasn’t much cover for a Highway Patrol cruiser to hide behind, but he didn’t want to take the chance.

There had been a time when he was young, reckless. But now, at 42, he just wanted to get the job done, quietly and trouble-free. He had a woman he loved waiting for him back home and he meant to get back to her in one piece, and with money in his pocket.

He looked out over the desert. A full moon hung bright in the sky, lighting the sand and scrub all around him with a pale wash of colour. Only the truck’s own headlights, picking out the dark road ahead, were brighter. These were the times when he was glad he had left the factory and risked all on this rig. The
freedom
of the long distance truck driver far outweighed the
loneliness
.

Lights appeared in his rear-view, bright and growing fast. He kept one eye on them and kept his speed steady. Someone wasn’t taking any notice of the limits.

The black car caught him up quickly in the outside lane, went past him so fast he half expected it to take off. He watched as its red taillights glowed smaller and smaller, until they disappeared altogether and he was once again alone in the dark.

10 miles down the road, and finally there were other lights in the darkness. Neon, flashing lights. Red.  Blue. A sign. And beyond the sign, dim in comparison, lighted windows.

Ron slowed his truck, gave himself time to read the sign.

Sally’s All Night Truck Stop And Diner.

He pulled off the Highway and into the almost deserted car park at the side. There was one other truck there, with no trailer attached, a beat-up old Ford Pickup and a shiny, black, foreign-looking car. Possibly a Peugeot or a Renault? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t hot on foreign cars.

He stopped a couple of spaces over from the other truck and, after making sure he had his wallet and his cigarettes, stepped out. He shivered. The night air was cool after the warmth of his cab. He locked the door quickly and made for the diner.

Sally’s
looked like corrugated iron, designed to appear like a giant trailer. Perhaps it had
been
a trailer sometime in the past, converted to stay in one place, had windows put in, a door. He hoped it had central heating and a decent kitchen. An old man sat at one of the windows, drinking something hot, looking out at Ron as he approached. There was no sign of curiosity or interest in those sad, watery eyes. He was just something to look at.

He pushed open the door which, despite its aged, rusted look, swung inwards smoothly and quietly. The warmth was pleasant as he stepped inside and speakers somewhere above his head played soft Country Music. It sounded a little like Alison Kraus, but he didn’t know the song. His kind of music. He was glad he’d decided to pull in.

After the stark exterior, the inside of
Sally’s
was bright and colourful. The seats were upholstered in red leather-look material, padded and comfortable. The tables were white and clean. Around the walls were old film posters, old road signs, even old government information posters. The key word, he decided, was ‘old’. From the corrugated outside to the history-edged inside, the diner wanted to give the impression of something that had been around for a long time and had old fashioned values. He wondered just how long ago it had
actually
been built.

Few of the tables were occupied. The old man sitting at the window seat, Ron thought, probably belonged to the Pickup. A younger man, more Ron’s own age, sat further in. He wore blue jeans and a denim shirt. The baseball cap pulled down on his head obscured most of his face as he tucked into a plate of egg and beans. Ron guessed he drove the other truck. Nearer to the door sat a young man, black hair sleeked back and greasy, several days of stubble not quite hiding a weak chin. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. He ate a cheeseburger and drank a coke. The word ‘salesman’ jumped into Ron’s mind and he presumed his was the foreign car.

The old man was the only one who looked at him as he walked to an empty table near the counter that ran two-thirds of the way along the back of the diner.

He had hardly sat down before a waitress appeared, holding a small notepad and pen in one hand, a jug of coffee in the other. She filled the empty cup in front of him without asking, put the jug on the table and separated pen and pad. She held the pen in her left fist, angled awkwardly, poised over the paper.

“What can I get ya?”

Ron looked up into a lined but pleasant middle-aged face. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She smiled at him with an unusually small mouth, but her blue eyes were cold, detached. He knew the look. It said, ‘I only smile for the tips’.

“Just a burger and fries.”

“You want everything on the burger?”

Ron shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

She made a note on the pad and walked away. He guessed the striped dress she wore was some kind of uniform for the place. He couldn’t imagine her wearing it out of choice. It was shapeless, unflattering. She disappeared through a door at the back of the counter. Was she cook as well? Possibly. The place didn’t look like it had enough of a turnover to employ many staff.

The sound of a big engine turned him towards the window. He could see lights, looked like another truck, turning into the diner. He watched as it came to a stop not too far from his own truck.

Funny how truck drivers all drift towards the same spot
.

It was difficult to be certain with the truck’s headlights glaring, but he thought he saw movement from the passenger side of the cab. Then a figure crossed in front of the lights, just a dark shape against the brightness. He heard the truck engine rev-up again and it began to move, slowly easing its way out of the car park and back onto the highway. He guessed they were just dropping a hitchhiker off.

Lots of truckers gave rides to hitchhikers on the highways, particularly young, pretty hitchhikers. It was not something Ron felt particularly comfortable doing. But there had been times when he’d felt obliged. It was that or leave some young girl standing on the side of the road. And who knew what the next person along might be like? A rapist? A killer? At least he knew she would be safe with him. He would never risk what he had with Mary over some stranger, however pretty she might be.

The door to the diner was pushed open, a cold draft darting inside, reaching Ron’s legs before being smothered by the warmth. The girl who entered had a backpack slung over one shoulder. It said ‘hitchhiker’ to him. He turned his eyes and his mind back to his coffee.

The girl came and stood close to his table, looking around the diner, as if searching for an empty table.

What’s her problem? It’s not like it’s exactly full or anything.

With her standing so close, he couldn’t help but glance up.

She stood side-on to him. She had shrugged the backpack off her shoulder and held it in a slim, pale hand down by her leg. She wore light-blue faded jeans and a black, thigh-length raincoat, zipped up to her chin. Her hair was black, the kind of deep shiny black that reflects the light with an almost oily sheen. It hung straight down to her shoulders. She could have been no more than nineteen.

She turned her head, noticed Ron looking at her and smiled.

It was one of the brightest, broadest and most genuine smiles Ron had ever seen. Her blue eyes twinkled with humour, something he found strangely attractive. It was if they were laughing at some private joke. If he had been asked later, that was all he could have remembered of the girl’s face. That, and the overall impression that he was looking at someone very beautiful.