14

14 Harrogate Road,  Leeds.

The weathered timber step let out a creak under his weight and made Chris stare down.  He was surprised that even in their current state of decay the front steps held to their old task and warned the house of people arriving.  There had been no one making their way up these gapped planks of wood for years though, rotting leaves clung together filling the corners of the stairs, the cracked and open grain of the wood lay exposed and scared by relentless years of weather.  In the past Chris had climbed these porch steps thousands of times, moving over them with no pause or consciousness.  As he stood looking at his feet on the steps, his smart Italian footwear contrasting against the rotting planks,  what he saw was the boy and man, a wood and leather allegory to his life of pretence.  

Glancing  up at the derelict facade of his old home he was glad this was the last time he would ever open the cracked front door and enter the hallway with its bent staircase and worn-down floor.  He was relieved he would never have to return again, never have to pretend a kindness to the people who once occupied the place, never have to justify abandoning a place which reminded him of the secret event and that hid the evidence of his deed.
When he'd received the final notice of approval for demolition from the city planners  this morning, it had bought him both concern and delight.  It was a surprise to him as he had not received notification the process of dereliction had been commenced.  It was great news, finally a finish, a razing to the ground, an eradication of past passions and a wiping of his hateful history.  Then a concern fell over his delight sucking warmth from the relief like a dank cloak,  it meant he could no longer avoid taking action, he had to return to the place. 

He picked his way up the edge of the weakened steps and made it on to the porch, here he had to take extra care to avoid gaps where the boards had rotted and fallen through.  The old screen door sagged ajar, blown open to slump, bent against the cracked brickwork… As he pushed the old front door open an arc of Minton tiles were exposed through the old mail laying on the floor.  The weakened door jammed itself, a mound  of litter pushed behind, Chris didn’t bother about closing it behind him and walked  over the crackling piles of paper.  To the right, the home's twisted stairway had retained its handrail but not its wrought iron lacework.  Some enterprising and energetic thief had liberated that classic bit of artistic value.  Thieves couldn't steal the memories though and looking at the stairway Chris recalled sitting secretly,  his head pressed against the steel flowers of the balustrade, nervously eavesdropping on the discussions of his parents and their adult guests.  That memory and the things he had overheard when he should not have been listening took him back to some more innocent  and then to some much darker times. 
Peering in to the left, the old front room discouraged his entry and telegraphed danger with its plaster ceiling hanging precariously from the rafters.  The leaves and rubbish blown in through the gaping window left no place for his childhood memories of christmas trees, grandfathers' laughter or the warming log fire.  On the floor too, destroying all recollection of domestic harmony, an old crime scene tape wove its confused path through the filth.  Looking over, Chris was struck by how the stains and shotgun blast remained so starkly evident on the mouldy wall leading to the dining room.  Broken from his reverie by the ugly mental images he turned and made his way through vandalised spaces, through to where the kitchen was and quickly out through the utility room and into the coal store.  He didn’t want to linger, he should spend as little time here as possible to retrieve the evidence.

There is a clarity of recollection that is burned into a mind by an event so traumatic, and despite the passage of years and all the events since, he recalled exactly where to go .  Chris stepped up onto the old brick stoop, removed the loose brick then reached confidently down into the cavity between the roof timbers and the outside wall.  His fingers brushed a rough, scaled form and he retracted his arm, thinking quickly.  It had been 14 years but stupidly he had still expected to feel the cold smooth oiled barrels of the weapon.  Obviously, he thought now, of course time would have eaten away and encrusted the metal evidence.  He realised it was probably an unnecessary, foolish and risky plan, his returning today.  With corrosion there was no reason, not after all this time, to come and remove the evidence.  Even if demolition workers do uncover the gun, the rot and rust will have clearly ensured no fingerprints would remain.  He paused in a dilemma, did he continue with his plan to risk taking it away and dumping it? If anyone finds him with the gun before he disposes of it, his involvement would be obvious.  He was still famous by his association to the event and only the real murderer would have known where the death weapon had been secreted.  So should he just leave it, trusting that even if the gun was found during demolition no connection to him could be made?  He could go back home, be the husband and father he had become since the trial, and continue to live his life as the innocent son of a drunken wife murderer… But then, he would always be thinking, some time, some how, that gun could lead to his discovery.  He watched all those forensic shows, what if the demolition men did find the gun, what if there was now a new scientific way to trace it to him as the shooter?  
Chris decided. 
It would be best, well worth the small risk in timing to properly destroy the evidence,  he'd retrieve the thing and destroy it, that was the best thing to do, he was certain.   

He reached back up and feeling down  into the gap got a solid grip on the rusty barrels.  With a few awkward tugs and a grinding drag he freed the corroded 12 gauge from its hide.   It had only taken a few seconds and the weapon was now his to destroy properly.  However time and worms had been harsh on the wood, his less than careful pulling had left much of the gun’s stock behind in the wall.   Chris swapped the rusted barrels to his left hand and stretched back in to find the rest of the gun. 
In mid-reach a cold shiver ran through him. 
He sensed rather than heard a presence behind him. 
Turning slowly he saw first the sneer on Detective Barron’s face, and almost simultaneously he heard the distinctive click of handcuffs opening in preparation for securing another life in custody. 

misheard

This is the first story I have posted that Gail has said she absolutely hates.  I don't hate it  so I'm posting it but I will probably write another to theme.

Miss Herd

It was a sweet thatched and lead glazed cottage, picket fenced and nudging the village green.     Sylvia and George had fallen in love with it the minute they drove through the iron gates of Lady Monde’s estate.  There were the usual delays and frustrations but within weeks the house was theirs and they started to do the repairs any old building needs.  

The villagers were welcoming to the new arrivals and approved that George was beautifying the exterior of the old cottage as the first stage of his renovations.   By way of its sumptuous thatch and fresh paint the cottage was again a key aesthetic to enhance one's stroll on the village green. 

George did fancy himself as a capable sort of fellow and undertook the job of stripping the internal walls and ceilings and removing the old kitchen and bathroom.  He had discovered it was best to wear a glove to pull at rubble while a bare hand was best to feel the weakness or solidity of the plaster.  To this one glove affectation Sylvia had sung him the Robert Palmer classic ‘you might as well face it you’re a dick with a glove.’ They’d chuckled at the old joke, Sylvia often got songs wrong and this was a classic George had corrected, embarrassingly, when they had first met.

The strip-out was turning into a much larger job than George had anticipated.  Areas he had thought fairly sound had turned into whole rooms of dust filled demolition.  His mood often failed and Sylvia’s cheery singing was a strange relief when ever she bought him a tea.  He smiled as she approached this time, he could hear her singing that ‘the ants are my friend, they're blowing in the wind’, that Dylan classic from the 60’s.
‘Hiya hon,’ George grinned at her and wiped the dust from his eyes. ‘You do know that you're singing your words to that song again don’t you?’
'Yeah, probably. ... When are you going to be through making this mess? The builder just rang me asking for start dates’. 
George sat on a pile of broken plaster and looked around his disaster. ‘You know, I don't think we can afford him to fix all of this.’
‘It’ll be okay, hon.’  Sylvia had no idea how it would be all okay but things had always had a way of working out. ‘You’re just spending your every spare moment in this muck, … what you need is a little break’
‘Yeah, maybe, but this won’t move itself into the skip’
‘Well, I can help, but you need a rest, let’s take a walk into town.’
George sipped his tea, stared at the rubble, the cracked plaster still clinging to the walls and decided a short walk in the fresh air may just be the best thing.

A typical day in Monde’s town is quiet at the best of times but on a Sunday the street is deserted, the shops that do open for the morning all close well before noon.  The high street was empty and they spent time looking through the general store window, at the charity shop's display and reading house prices in the local real estate agent.  Turning the corner they strolled beside the original facade of the bank, redundant now.  A modern glass entry on the new High Street provided the required security entrance now.  George liked these huge old carved doors which still hung proud but were only retained as a fire exit.  He stepped up off the pavement to run his hands over the fine carving and sadly pitted brass-work.  To his surprise the heavy doors gave to his touch. ‘Hey, look! Frank has forgotten to lock the back door!’    
‘Well just pull it shut then.’
George peered inside, the internal doors were also ajar.. He called out ‘Hello? You in here Frank?’ then turning to the street ‘Every door inside the place is open Syl, I’m going in to have a quick look.’

‘Just shut the door George, I’ll ring up and report it.'

‘Yeah, okay, you call Frank but I’m going in to check and make sure no one’s hurt in here.’ He pushed open the inner glass door and walked into the old marble lobby.  It was deathly quiet inside this old building.  Ornate brass-edged glass cages surrounded the four teller counters and George noted their security doors were open as well.  Behind the counters, the clerk’s desks and manager’s office were clear of any papers but every drawer and filing cabinet was open.  Strange, George thought, this isn't a robbery scene, there’s nothing strewn about, everything neat and tidy, but open.  Maybe this was how the bank was always left after closing time.

In the low light his eyes became dry and he rubbed some grit from their edges and at the same time George began to feel strange,  like something  was stealing the wetness from his mouth. ‘Hey, Syl. there's a weird smell in here, no-one's about and everything is open.   

‘Yeah, well leave it all alone and come out will you? ‘

‘I think the dust has finally got to me, I’m as dry as a nun.  Just going to find a drink of water.’ 

‘Okay, Hon. ‘there’s a bathroom on the right’ she sang the old Credence tune through the open door.  George would have laughed but he was feeling light headed as he set off to the tap.

Sylvia’s phone rang just as she was about to put her head inside and call out to George.  He had been taking a while to drink. ‘Hi Sylvia, Frank here, I got your message, the pest guys must have forgotten to lock it and put the sign up on the back door when they finished.  Make sure you stay away, we are fumigating the place, it’ll be super toxic in there…..’

Sylvia’s  scream was heard throughout the town and the fumigators packing up their gear at the main entrance to the bank were the first to get to her.  Donning their hazmat suits they saw George slumped beneath the hand basin, water running from the tap.  

                                                                        ~~

It was a pleasant sunlit afternoon when they retrieved his body and laid him on the green..  Sylvia's sobbing form was buried into George's chest, the scene of dismay disrupting the view of the picturesque thatched cottage with its dusty leaded windows.

                                                                      ~~~~

(okay, notes for the uninitiated; a Mondegreen is a word coined about 140 years ago by Sylvia Wright who misheard a poem's line which was written.... and they 'laid him on the green'.  She heard 'Lady Mondegreen' and memorised the poem as such. For the curious amongst you, google it. 
My favourite mondegreen is the tenth of Santas reindeer, Olive.  As in ... 'Olive, the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names')