BBC wake-up call, exploded from the radio alarm clock and continued with a full report from Mexico City; England had been knocked out of the World Cup by Argentina. ‘Big deal,’ groaned Steven, who pushed his head under the bed covers and drew himself into a foetal curl. The drone of the reporter’s voice finally dragged him from the last phase of a fitful sleep and compelled him to sit up and open his eyes. He looked out the cottage window and saw a dull, overcast summer sky and pondered on the beginning of a day that would be different from any other. ‘This is the day I’m going to die.’ He said out loud. Then leapt out of bed and stretched
During a breakfast of fruit flavoured water and toast, he thought about how the plans he had made for this day could unravel and if there was anything on his list still to tick off. Only his valedictory visit to the village and special preparations for Fergus’s lunchtime visit remained. There was, he told himself, nothing left to go wrong. His eight months sojourn, was drawing to an end. The two mile walk down to the village, through an ancient copse, was the best part of his day. It was where he first discovered how to unshackle himself from the ugly conventions that had ruled his life, until now and it was where he had learned to appreciate the unsullied beauty of woodland life. He had delighted at the vixen, who sometimes patrolled the footpath with her cubs and seemed to take no notice of him, even the squirrels would stop, to pause Momentarily, and check him out before scampering through the hedge. At the gap, where a large wedge of land had slipped down the hillside, many years before, he stopped, for the last time to look down on the village. It was a glorious setting; trim rooftops nestling on the bend of a horseshoe bay, glistening in the morning sun; a cluster of diamonds clutched to a ring of golden sand. ’I’ll miss all this.’ He said to himself. The village main Street was busy for a Monday morning, nevertheless, he greeted every passer by with a smile and an exaggerated good-morning. He walked to the pier, where a group of anglers were preparing for a day’s fishing. One of them recognised him and they had a brief conversation, that left Steven with an urge to punch him. Instead, he turned away and walked up to the village centre. Later on, villagers would report that his behaviour was very odd. ‘He kept going on about, how sad he would be, when he left. Telling us how much he would miss us.’ Said Mrs Owens who ran the village post office. The regulars of the Blacksmith’s Arms, who had become familiar with Steven’s taciturn charm and bar room generosity, had been waiting for the pub to open, when, according to one local man. ‘He suddenly appeared among us and stood in front of the pub door. He had his arms up in the air, grinning like a mad man and, telling us that we were his kind of people.’ ‘A bit more jovial than usual, for sure’ Said the Landlord. ‘He certainly wasn’t the big quiet man we got to know and like. We knew something was bothering him, but it was none of our business.’ Before he left the village, Steven telephoned his agent from the phone box and left a cryptic message on her home answering machine. ‘Something about bringing his depression to an end.’ She later told the police. Shortly after mid-day, Steven was back at the cottage. He stood on the porch, his powerful Nikon binoculars fixed on the distant summit road and was alerted when he saw a car approaching. If it was Fergus, he would take the left fork, descend towards the coast and be here in less than an hour. He began to feel the anxiety of a moment approaching and started to pace the timber boards. He stepped down from the porch and surveyed the cheerless bracken landscape that enclosed the cottage. Very few people ever came here; an infrequent hill-walker perhaps and, on one occasion, a group of Open University students. But today, it was empty and desolate. He checked the narrow path that contoured down through the densely wooded copse towards the sea wall and the small jetty, where his rubber dinghy had been tied up since yesterday. He turned and looked back along the coast road and caught the motion of a car travelling down the steep hill past the Coastguard Station. ‘Keep coming you perfidious bastard, I’ll be waiting for you.’ Steven mumbled to himself. He was thinking back to last Halloween, less than a year ago, when he learned that Fergus had been snooping into his life. Among the predilections and indiscretions uncovered by Fergus, was proof they had the same father. This was information that Steven had known nothing about and it was information that Fergus had no intentions of sharing with him, even though they often shared the same bed. Their relationship, which had never been affectionate in any sense , rarely strayed beyond Steven’s fixation for inflicting physical torture and Fergus’s willingness to receive it. This compact suited Fergus, who had adapted to, what he described as, the mild inconvenience of transient pain, in return for rewards that provided him with access to money, leisure and celebrity. A sudden revelation they were related, would bring Fergus’s subsidised lifestyle to an abrupt halt. But Fergus was unpredictable when presented with an opportunity to show off or play the pervert, especially if he thought it would attract public revulsion. Such an opportunity arose, when he exchanged drunken pillow talk with a callous London hack, who had offered to buy his sleaze for money and a tabloid promise to keep his name out of it. When the story broke two weeks later, complete with quotes from the named source, Steven’s private life was exposed in every raw detail. It hinted at sordid sexual practices in his youth; it suggested a fascination with sadomasochism and it wildly embellished accusations that he tormented captive animals for self gratification. His public humiliation soon descended into mortification, when it was revealed he had been having sex with his half-brother. His disciplined routine, of applying his creative mind to daily work, deserted him and the demand for his paintings plummeted. Originals were being sold on e-bay, at a fraction of their original value. Two lucrative commissions were cancelled and the only media interest he attracted, was requests to comment on the daily diet of headlined sleaze. To the world, Steven, was a poor man’s son, who became a rich and famous artist, and Fergus, was a rich man’s son, who had drifted from privilege to indolence. They were strikingly similar in appearance; both were extremely tall, both possessed a large nose and both had red hair. Characteristically, they were very different. Fergus was gregarious and capricious and cared nothing about consequences. He shamelessly flaunted his sexuality, was promiscuous and wallowed in the cheap publicity generated by his association with Steven. Those who knew him, were aware of his frequent bouts of giggling psychotic ranting about cruelty and domination and some felt unease at his fascination with ‘knife torture’ as he described it. Steven was different, he was nervous around cameras and journalists. He was serious about his art, preferred to maintain a discrete public image and eschewed media interviews, unless it was to discuss his paintings or art in general. He never commented on, or confirmed his sexuality, even when it became obvious that he and Fergus were living together. But Steven had a dark side, that Fergus had become all too familiar with. After many years of subjecting himself to a form of self treatment for Sadistic Personality Disorder, involving small rodents and stray cats, Steven had learned how to use his physical and sexual exploitation of Fergus, to relieve his mind of violent urges and psychotic episodes. This allowed him to rise above the prosaic and produce paintings of great quality. When he was creating freely, his body tingled with energy and when he was thinking decisively, his existence felt defined. Now, Fergus and the publicity he had generated, had undermined and cheapened everything he had achieved and blocked any hope of him ever being reinstated as a great artist. The only way back, he had reasoned , was a radical attack on the cause of his condition. ‘Lance the boil - feel the liberty.’ He told himself over and over again. Lancing the boil, without surrendering his liberty would restore this impulse to work. It would liberate him from the mediocrity that was obstructing his will to paint. It came to him late one evening, almost as a revelation. He was standing on the porch, wrapped up against the chill and mindlessly looking down at the bay. He was following the progress of the lambent streaks of moonlight tripping across the waves, when his artist’s eye for light, made him think of Monet’s famous painting of sunrise over Le Havre. Each patch of light, he observed, dipped from the crest into the trough and reappeared a moment later on a new crest looking almost identical. He looked up at the moon; bowed his head and said ’thank you. Steven walked toward the cliff edge and looked down on the only car travelling on the coast road. He felt a slip of anxiety, when the car stopped and pulled into a lay-by, but he relaxed, when he saw Fergus emerge. Through his binoculars, Steven could see Fergus talking to himself. He looked troubled, his demeanour seemed erratic and he appeared to be praying towards the heavens. His rugged expansive face, with its radiant white toothed grin, was not on show, instead, his features looked creased and shadowed. When he had stepped out of the car, Fergus rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms and looked upwards. He saw a man, standing on the cliff top, silhouetted against an ashen sky; the man appeared to be looking down at him. He ignored the onlooker and turned away to light a cigarette and look out across the bay towards the vastness of the ocean. The bay was empty of craft, except for a cabin cruiser, floating motionless, on flat grey water. He sat on a low wall and reflected on Steven’s unexpected and bizarre telephone call, late the previous evening. There was something about the conversation that wasn’t Steven. He was too impulsive, too direct and there had been no intermediary. Why hadn’t he asked his agent to contact me? That’s what he usually did. Fergus had regarded Steven’s invitation, imploring him to meet and sort things out, not only pitiful, but out of character. He was unable to sympathise with his bellyaching about media attention and the shame he felt. ‘Nothing shameful about a bit of publicity’ Was all the advice he felt able to offer. ‘I want to get them off my back and get back to work.’ Steven had shouted into the phone. ‘What do you expect me to do about it.?’ Fergus had asked him. ’what’s done is done.’ He insisted and was about to hang up. ‘Will you help me?’ Steven demanded to know. ‘I will pay a lot of money to anyone who can help me.’ He added suggestively. ’At least, let’s be friends again’. Steven’s plea to renew their friendship, meant nothing to Fergus, it was the offer of money that interested him, but still, he could not help feeling apprehensive. He was aware that Steven was a consummate planner; nothing was ever spontaneous and a reputation for never revealing his work, until the last brush stroke had dried, was factored into his every decision. ‘Don’t tell anyone you are leaving town.’ Steven had insisted. ‘Especially your newspaper chums. And ‘I’ll hire the car.’ reminding Fergus that he had been banned from driving. ‘Collect it from at the parking bay and drive straight here. I’ll meet you at the cottage for lunch. I’ll be waiting for you.’ He ended the call in a soft pleading voice. Fergus flicked his cigarette stub onto the rocks and paused. ’He’s just looking for a bit of his usual rough and tumble’ he told himself and turned to walk to the car. He eased his large frame onto the driving seat, leaned over to open the glove compartment and removed a nine inch stiletto knife. He pulled off the protective plastic cover and held up the narrow metal blade to admire his reflection on the shiny steel surface, then slotted it into a leather sheath, sewn to the inside of his jacket. If it gets out of hand, he thought, I can deal with it. He engaged the engine, drove less than two hundred yards and turned right on to the narrow access road that would meander to the top of the hill and take him to where Steven was waiting for him When he stood outside the cottage, Fergus shook his head and stared at the white walls, the bright green woodwork and the red corrugated roof. He stepped back and chuckled when he recognised the small bistro table on the porch. It was decorated with an old Chianti bottle, it’s neck thickly wrapped in red and green candle drippings. It looked like the table decoration they had removed from the restaurant in Capri last year. Also on the table, was a single glass and a bottle of Gaja Barbaresco. It had been the most expensive wine on the menu and, much to the disgust of the wine waiter, they had drank four bottles at speed without stopping to appreciate the bouquet far less the taste. They were roaring drunk by the end of the night, Fergus remembered. ‘Happier times.’ He thought. ‘Fraternal Greetings, Little brother.’ Came a call from the doorway. Fergus looked up to see Steven dressed in a smart grey track suit, looking fit and about two stones lighter. His arms were open wide and he was smiling; they hugged, slapped backs and kissed cheeks. Fergus said.’ It’s great to see you Steven. I never expected to hear from you again.’ ‘I know.’ replied Steven. ‘If you’ve not brought your media friends with you, we can resolve everything over a drink. Give me a couple of minutes to change.’ Fergus’s suspicions began to dissipate, but he still felt a little on edge. He sat down at the bistro table and poured himself a drink. Steven instantly emerged from the cottage with a glass in his hand and asked. ‘What do you think? Just like Capri, eh?’ extending his arm towards the table in a gesture that was an invitation to drink up. ’Just like Capri.’ Fergus replied and poured a half glass of wine down his throat and swallowed. Your turn, Fergus was about to say, before leaning over the table and grasping at his throat. ’What was that?’ He rasped. ‘Strychnine.’ replied Steven. With a touch of mockery in his voice. ‘A good unhealthy dose that’ll kill you in about half an hour.’ WHAT?’ Fergus managed to yell before he started dry retching. ‘You bastard. You’ll never get away with this.’ ‘Oh! Yes I will.’ Said Steven. ‘Do you see that boat out there in the bay?’ He raised his arm in a grandiose gesture. ‘All mine; freshly painted, freshly registered..’ He grinned with mock pride before changing his demeanour from snap happy to ferocious. ‘When I’m finished with you’, he growled into the ear of Fergus’s quivering torso ‘they’ll think your putrefying body is mine; They will mourn me and forget about you. What’ve you got to say to that, little brother?’ he asked contemptuously. ‘Please - Please don't do this.’ Fergus managed to reply in a weak croaky voice filled with panic. ‘Sorry, little brother.’ Steven scoffed. ’What’s done is done. Now, who was it who told me that recently?’ Steven pulled a chair towards him and sat down to watch the animated shuddering that accompanied the onset of his brother painful death, and began to experience sexual arousal. He leaned down and moved his face close up to Fergus, until both noses touched. ’Listen to me you wreck of a human being.’ he snarled, directing eight months of suppressed anger and sexual longing towards the terror-stricken eyes of his half-sibling. ‘You are nothing but a bag of degenerate squirming appetites. You humiliated me; you destroyed the only thing I have ever cared about.’ He pulled back a little and briefly paused to allow a moment of doubt to pass, then pushed his lips hard onto Fergus’s twitching mouth and immediately felt a sharp pain on the left side of his neck. Steven stood up and staggered back against the door frame. He reached up and pulled the knife from his flesh and watched blood spurt from the wound onto the table and into the wine glass. He felt his legs give way and grabbed at nothing when his limp body crumpled and he fell face up at the feet of Fergus’s convulsing body. For a living moment, their eyes clashed and Fergus watched the vitality and confusion drain from his half-brother’s pallid face. Then his spine arched, his limbs stiffened and his facial muscles tightened into a final grotesque sneer. Patrick Joyce 18 October2014 |
Patrick JoycePatrick Joyce is a retired trade union organiser. He forged his writing and reporting style in the industrial confrontations of the 1970’s and the political attempts to abolish society in the 1980’s. He has contributed to a number of journals on the subject and has also spent two years writing sports reports for a local paper in Rugby, under the name, Jack Higham. Copyright
Patrick Joyce has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. Please do not reproduce or copy without prior consent from the author. ArchivesCategories |