By: Danny Hill
| It was getting on for late-afternoon that Sunday and the weather was especially cold. So when our main character, John, answered the door, he was in no mood for chit-chat. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he snapped. The elderly woman standing on his doorstep jittered with apprehension. She wore ridiculously large jam-jar like spectacles which made her pale eyes appear like greasy smudges against the glass. As she spoke, the glasses danced across her withered face. ‘Is your mum in?’ she asked. John sighed in exasperation. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Mrs Griffin? My mother is seriously ill. I can assure you that she’s in no mood for visitors!’ The old lady looked ill-at-ease. She spoke but her words soon trailed off. ‘I haven’t seen her for so long. She hasn’t been to the bingo…’ ‘She has cancer, Mrs Griffin,’ John said angrily. ‘I hardly think that she’ll be feeling entirely gregarious with all the other fuddy-duddy’s on the estate at the moment!’ The old lady bowed her head guiltily. She seemed lost for words until she finally muttered: ‘So she hasn’t shown any signs of improvement then?’ John feigned a look of resignation. ‘The doctor assures me that he’s doing all he can.’ Mrs Griffin seemed perplexed. ‘And which doctor would that be?’ ‘Is it relevant?’ asked John. ‘Well.. I …I-’ The old lady was flapping like a frantic chicken being chased by an over-zealous farmer. ‘I don’t want to be any trouble,’ she said, ‘but I’ve been chatting to Dr Armstrong earlier on today… and he said that he hasn’t seen your mum for-’ ‘Goodbye, Mrs griffin!’ John interrupted, not giving her the chance to finish, slamming the door in her face. Nosy old bitch, John thought, as he made his way to the kitchen. Why can’t she just mind her own business? Why doesn’t shay, why doesn’t everybody, just bugger off? Things hadn’t been easy for John since his mother had been struck with illness. It wasn’t as if he had any brothers or sisters to care for her, and his father had left them years ago. So it was just John and his poor old mum. There was no question of her going into a home. She would not have it. You’ll not catch me in one o’ them bloody places, she had said time and time again. Lying in me own piss and smearing shit all over the walls. Fat bleedin’ chance! At first, John thought that caring for his mum was a heavy weight to carry. After all, she was very high-maintenance. But after all these years, he had adapted, became anaesthetized to the snide comments and gratuitous character assassinations that his mother constantly threw at him. She had almost constantly insisted that he put the gas-fire on in the living room. The wrinkled old bag was always cold! Didn’t she realize that the gas prices were so extortionate? Nothing bothered him anymore. In his mind, he had built himself a little shelter, and the voices from the outside only served to annoy him. In the kitchen, John tossed some soggy old tea-bags into a grimy mug (what was the use of using fresh tea-bags when there was plentiful left in the old ones?). As he waited for the kettle to boil, he fiddled around in his nose and left a green, slimy smudge resting on the worktop. He then decided to adjust his underpants and scratch his bottom, belching loudly. Personal hygiene wasn’t one of John's strong points. He seldom took a bath or a shower, or even washed his clothes. His lank, greasy hair hung in front of his thick-rimmed, NHS-issue glasses and he swept it away behind crusty ears. Splashes of grey hair appeared around his unshaven face and temples. He wore navy-blue dungarees and a short-sleeved , white shirt; the collar thick with dandruff and grime. It was impossible to guess John’s age. He could have been anywhere between 35 and 55, given the disgusting, unkempt appearance of the man. John didn’t work. Hadn’t worked for ten years. He refused, citing an over-elaborate back injury, which, of course, had as much basis in fact as the “Star Trek“ programs he enjoyed. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t really like anyone. Although he did bring girls home now and again when he was in his teens, the girls were never safe from his mother’s scornful appraisals of them. John remembered one occasion vividly. He had met a girl from school and they had enjoyed a couple of dates together. However, when this poor girl met his mum, she was hit with a barrage of questions. It felt like an interrogation. John’s mother had asked the girl if she were a virgin, if not, whether she was waiting until marriage. She asked her - in a very stern voice - why the girl had chosen to wear such a short skirt, and why she had dyed her hair blonde. She even asked her, if she did marry her son, if she wouldn’t mind coming to the house and doing some cleaning twice a week. The girl didn’t return for a second visit. John had lost interest in girls then. Besides, courtship was such an expensive chore nowadays. All that money! Restaurants, alcohol, traveling expenses, and look at how much the local cinema prices had shot up! … It all added up. The kettle snapped and John made the tea. It was nearly time for lunch and he wondered what to have. Beans on toast, he decided. Why not? He’d already had beans on toast eight times that week, but at 15 pence for a tin of beans… It was a bargain! He liked to shop in bulk, sometimes carrying twenty tins of beans and eight loaves at the same time. The exertion was worth it because Sue Willis - daft slut - worked there. She always felt the need to embarrass John in public whenever he went to the shop, the tart. John recalled his last visit to the shop. Sue Willis had been serving him at the checkout. ‘Beans again is it, John?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And bread?’ ‘Bread, yes.’ ‘Don’t you ever get tired of eating just beans on toast, John?’ ‘No.’ ‘What would you do if there were ever a national shortage, eh John?’ John, thinking: What are you talking about you stupid fucking bitch. Just get on with it! Shrugging. Disinterested. ‘You got a girl yet?’ ‘No.’ ‘Good looking fella like you? I’ll bet they’re knocking your door down.’ ‘Apparently not.’ ‘Why don’t I ever see you out and about then?’ ‘Because I have to care for my mother. She’s an invalid.’ ‘Invalid? Ha! I’ve seen your mum at the bingo when her numbers have been called. She’s like grease-bloody-lightning your mum - like a greyhound out of a trap!’ ‘Look, I‘ve had enough of this… How much is it?’ ‘Five-seventy, love.’ Oh yes, his mother had warned him about that Sue Willis. Four kids and no father, she had warned. She’s had more pricks than a championship dartboard! Having decided on his meal, John made the trip to the garage, where the deep freezer was, to fetch a loaf for defrosting. Humming softly to himself, he lifted the lid and removed a loaf. Beneath the loaf, a wrinkled face grimaced up at him. ‘Hello, mother,’ John said chirpily. ‘How are you today?’ The frozen corpse did not reciprocate. John felt a slight pang of remorse, but quickly pushed it away. It was for her own good.. He patted his mother’s solid face with the side of his hand. A clump of frost fell from the corpse’s head. ‘It won’t be for much longer, mum, I promise,‘ John lied, closing the freezer lid. John’s mother had died unexpectedly six months ago. Claiming his inheritance (over £40,000) and registering her death had been the easy part, telling his mother’s friends had been the difficult bit. These people would only make a fuss, expect a funeral. John suspected that most people actually enjoyed funerals. Especially the elderly. He had seen the old folk chatting amongst themselves about their various illnesses and surgical operations with the fervor children usually enjoy when exchanging football cards. He detested them. Well-wishers, telling him that his mother was a lovely woman - no she was not. Did they know her? Anyhow, did people realize the cost involved in arranging a funeral, John had considered. You could be talking thousands! Coffins did not come cheaply, neither did the church or the transportation; flowers, and of course, people would expect a little soiree after the ceremony. Have you seen how much these people eat? They fucking shovel it in! More than happy to fill their own body weight with sandwiches, cakes and pies. Oh no, mother. Definitely not, John thought. If you want your entry into God’s kingdom then you’ll have to wait… That is if He’ll have you, you whining old bag! Satisfied that his conscience was clear, and that everything he was doing was perfectly understandable under the circumstances, John trotted off to the kitchen to prepare his meal. Later that night, John lay asleep on the sofa. He had wished for erotic dreams of young virgins with short skirts, but his desire came with no remuneration. His eyes flitted beneath their lids, and his slobbering mouth snatched at the air in mild panic. His dreams were clearly troubled ones. The air was thick with inky-black, cloying darkness. John did not know his whereabouts. It took a while for his eyes to adjust. Smoke scattered across the earth like a badly fitted carpet. Somewhere, an owl tooted spookily. John knew where he was now. He was in the cemetery. The cemetery where he should have buried his mother. John hated these places, had always been afraid of them as a child, and still, as an adult. He began to panic then. He could see no way out, just a vast sea of tombstones, badly neglected plots and foliage. His footsteps were heavy through the mud, and the only light was offered by the full, waxy moon, which sat low in the sky like a giant watchful eye. John heard his name from somewhere in the distance. ‘John,’ the voice was calling him. ‘Jooohhhhnnnnn.’ He ran then. The voice had sounded strange, yet… familiar to him. His heart and lungs pumping, John ran through some dense foliage, using his arms to fight away the loose bracken which threatened to claw out his eyes and scratch his face. It was then he stopped in a clearing. He heard his name again. Louder this time, more clarity. ‘Jooohhhhnnnnn,’ it moaned. He instantly knew who the voice belonged to then. It was his mother. And she was in pain. In the center of the clearing sat a deep-freezer, which lay looking mysteriously like a white coffin. Fearfully, John crept slowly towards the freezer; too afraid to continue, but disinclined to flee. He slowly lifted the lid. Wisps of icy smoke emanated from the deep-white chasm. But it was empty. Of course, John thought, I know what this is! It’s a nightmare! A silly, silly nightmare! He was sure he was going to wake any second and this nonsense would stop. Nightmares indeed! It was when he turned around that he saw his mother. He screamed. He woke up screaming into the darkness of his living room. Night had come since he had fallen asleep, but hadn’t he left the television set on, during “Star Trek”? He couldn’t be sure. He stood up and snapped the light switch. Nothing. ‘Damn and fucking blast!’ John said to himself. ‘It must be that fucking trip-switch.’ John gathered himself and searched for his flashlight. A smear of tomato sauce and saliva had settled in his stubble and turned crusty. He moved into the garage to where the trip-switch was. After a few minutes of cursing to himself and fumbling, electricity was restored to the house again. The kick of the generator from the deep-freezer hummed into life. John had a terrible thought. What if the old bitch had gone soft in there? But, worse still, what about his loaves? He didn’t fancy another trip to the shop because of that harlot, Sue Willis. John lifted the lid. His mother lay silently in the pit of the freezer. The frost around her face had dissipated, revealing tussled, grey hair and wrinkles which spread beneath her eyes and cheeks. A rivulet of water meandered across her cheek, creating the illusion she was crying. John playfully patted his mother’s cheek. ‘You had me worried there, mum,’ he said jovially. ‘I thought you may have got up and gone for a stroll!’ That was when her eyes snapped open. His mothers eyes pierced John with an evil glare. And that is really where our story should end, ladies and gentleman, for if any of us had met such a shock, surely our hearts would not survive such trauma. But John was made of sterner stuff. He did what he thought any man would do. He lifted his arms and ran away squealing like a little child. He ran to the front door, but it was jammed. So, still screeching he ran upstairs to the window. They too, were jammed. There was no escape. He heard his mother call him again, just as she had done in his nightmare. ‘Jooohhhnnnn!’ The voice was insistent now. Angrier. John looked through the window, into the street. There was an old lady there. It was Mrs Griffin from this morning. He was saved! He banged on the window as hard as he could (but not so hard as to break it. These things cost, you know) trying frantically to get her attention. When he eventually did, the woman smiled at him. But it wasn’t an amicable smile. It was a knowing smile. Mrs Griffin continued down the street, ignoring the man in the window. ‘You bitch!’ John screamed. ‘You fucking useless old sow!’ John ran downstairs, furtively monitoring the hallway for his mother. All seemed quiet; the silence was almost oppressive. He backed into the living room, to where he knew there was a phone. He was feeling lucky now. There was no sign of the old bitch anywhere! He reached for the phone, but before he could lift the receiver, an icy hand clamped down on his own. He recoiled. There was no escape from the absolute terror that had filled his small, selfish world. Panting, he turned his head upwards to the defrosting form of his mother. Her face muscles were set hard, but her eyes blazed with insanity. As she spoke, John noticed a firm purple tongue clicking inflexibly through her tight lips. ‘You useless lump! Turn that fire on! I’m bloody freezing!’ And that was when John finally had his heart attack.
Back To Main Page TMND MySpace Profile |