In a Walled Garden …

I haven’t done any creative writing for ages due to so much time spent converting my four e-Books to paperback. But recently I’ve been spurred to get back into practise by a few of my fellow writer/bloggers.  I don’t know where this idea came from, I dreamt it up when we were in the car recently.

In a Walled Garden …

Sunday Morning

A commotion below in the old walled garden disturbed the nest-building jackdaws. One of them peered down from the chimney top, a twig in its beak, head cocked and one blue eye fixed on the woman. A young woman, standing on the lawn with her arms wrapped tightly around her, as though if she let go she would break into a million pieces.

The bird wasn’t disturbed by the sight of the woman but by the splintering crash of a Waterford crystal wine glass as it shattered on the patio, followed by the hoarse shouting of the woman’s husband.

‘You will not leave me! You will never leave me!’ Words steeped in rage and laced with alcohol.

The woman turned slowly, raising her chin and pulling herself up as though to strengthen herself against the fury in his voice.

‘It’s over,’ she said, and she unwrapped her arms, ripped off her wedding ring and flung it across the garden. It hit the old wall and pinged back into the rose bed. It was too much for the man.

The jackdaw watched intently as he charged across the grass roaring in some sort of demented anguish. He was a big man and when he threw himself at her it took them both down; his hands around her throat.

‘I’ll kill you!’ he bawled as they wrestled on the ground.

‘I’ll … see you … in hell!’ The woman choked out the words as she clawed at his face. He tightened his grip, he was too strong for her, too full of black fury and out of control. Her vision began to blur. Light was fading, but she managed to stare up into his eyes as he bent over her, those very blue eyes that she had once lost herself in. He was triumphant now, so pumped by his power over her that he allowed a slight relaxing of his grip. Her life in his hands. It felt glorious. It gave her the chance to suck in one last breath.

‘I’ll come back,’ she rasped, ‘And I’ll haunt you … you bastard … ‘.

A few minutes later she lay still. The husband stood up, pale and sweating, muttering curses and staring around. Thank god they lived in an isolated spot. Then he dragged the woman across the grass, into the potting shed and shut the door.

Sunday night

The man couldn’t sleep even though he was dog-tired; too much on his mind. The work had been hard – lifting the floor of the shed, and then the digging. So much digging that his hands were blistered. But it was done. He finished the whisky in the Waterford crystal tumbler. A shame she’d made him smash the wine glass; ruined the set. It would probably cost him fifty quid to replace it. Bitch. He eased his legs up onto the sofa and leaned back against the cushions. She was staring down at him from the photograph on the mantelpiece over the old fireplace. He’d smash that tomorrow. That picture of the three of them; her, himself, and his best friend Antonio. Friends since college, until now. Now that he’d found out about about the affair. She’d always fancied bloody Antonio with his Spanish good looks, charm oozing from every slimy Latin pore. ‘Bastard,’ he mumbled, curling his lip, ‘Wait till I get my hands on you.’ And then he closed his eyes.

The old grandfather clock in the hall struck three, it’s heavy tones resounding through the downstairs, and then a few seconds later there was another sound, a clink-clink-ping-clink-clingle- ping-ding- clingle-clink … . The man on the sofa woke up. The moon was shining in the window where he hadn’t quite pulled the curtains together. He sat up and rubbed a hand across his face and wondered what had woken him. His eyes were drawn to the little path of moonlight which ended in front of the old fireplace. There was something there, sparkling. He didn’t remember dropping anything. He eased himself off the sofa, heavy-headed, and padded across the carpet. A jolt went through him and he reared back at the sight of a ring. Her wedding ring. He’d know it anywhere, even in moonlight in the middle of the night; the bespoke design he’d paid a small fortune for. How … ? ‘I’ll haunt you, you bastard!’ Her last words slithered into his mind and an irrational fear slammed into his chest and squeezed, squeezed so hard he couldn’t breathe. Squeezed so hard that he toppled forwards and fell with a crash into the fireplace.

Three days later

The doctor watched the men from the mortuary load the body-bag into the sleek black van. He shook his head sadly. Poor bugger he thought, massive heart failure and dying alone like that. He wondered if the police had tracked his wife down. What a dreadful shock it was going to be for her. Maybe she was in Spain, she often took trips there. He looked up as a jackdaw on the roof suddenly gave a shrill cry. It was staring down, eye-balling him. It wasn’t happy. It had found a wonderful shiny treasure in the rose bed a few days ago and carried it up to the nest in the old chimney. His new wife was thrilled with it. They had placed it carefully between the twigs. The next day it was gone.