Maureen JENNINGS - Under the Dragon’s Tail

It was clear that Freddie was figuring it out. “Mrs. Mother said my real ma died from drink. She was a tart.”

Annie swallowed hard. “She was lying, Freddie. On both counts. Listen, do you want to put your trousers on?”

He nodded and she got stiffly to her feet, grabbed the trousers, and pushed them towards the boy.

“I’m going to sit in this chair.”

Murdoch stood up too and leaned against the door frame, ready to catch Freddie if he bolted. He sucked loudly on his lozenge. There was a scrambling sound from underneath the bed as Freddie struggled to dress. Then there was a tentative scratching noise and the boy’s head emerged. He looked so worn and afraid that Murdoch wanted nothing more than to scoop him up and embrace him. However, he didn’t move and neither did Annie. The boy squeezed himself out from under the bed but remained on all fours ready to scurry back at the first sign of trouble.

“Let’s go down to the kitchen,” said Murdoch. “I’ll send Constable Crabtree off for some of those sausages and we can all have a talk.”

Mutely, Freddie shook his head and looked as if he was about to retreat again. Quickly, Murdoch moved over, squatted down, and grasped hold of the boy’s shoulder.

“You don’t have any choice, lad.”

Again Freddie shook his head. Annie spoke up.

“What I’m thinking, Mr. Murdoch, is that this house is a bad place to ask questions in. Is there anywhere else we can go to?”

Murdoch winced. Of course she was right. How could Freddie possibly sit in the kitchen where in all likelihood he’d last seen George bleeding away his life’s blood.

“I think that’s an excellent suggestion, Miss Brogan. Let’s go across the road to that nice neighbour lady. See if she’d let us use her front parlour. Does that suit you, Freddie?”

He nodded. Murdoch hoped Mrs. Golding was still willing to be a Good Samaritan.

Annie held out her hand, and hesitantly Freddie took it. His head was lowered, every muscle poised ready to flee. Murdoch led the way out of the bedroom and into the landing. Crabtree was standing at the bottom of the stairs but he didn’t speak. Freddie stopped in his tracks when he saw the uniform but Murdoch didn’t give him a chance to run away. Calmly, he said to Crabtree, “Just go across to Mrs. Golding’s, will you, Constable. Tell her we’re coming over. There’s three of us.”

“Yes, sir.”

At the bottom of the stairs they had to go past the kitchen, but Annie made sure she was between Freddie and the door and she kept on walking, holding his hand firmly in hers.

Three things stood out for Murdoch about the next hour. First was how politely Mrs. Golding hid her astonishment at the sight of Annie Brogan. Second was watching Freddie gulp down the cold roast beef and bread like a starving dog. Almost immediately, he vomited it back all over the Goldings’ best parlour rug. Mrs. Golding didn’t make a murmur of reproach and on Annie’s recommendation went to warm up some milk. The third memorable thing was Freddie’s reaction to Murdoch’s question.

“What happened, young lad? Who was it did in George? Can you tell me?”

Freddie was sitting close to Annie and he shuddered, put his head back, and wailed.

Once again, Lily had fled to her hiding place in the riverbank. Her dress had been splattered with George’s blood. Panting, she’d pulled off the garment, tearing the shoulder seam in her haste, and immersed it in the cool water. In the darkness, the stains were difficult to see, but she rubbed at them as best she could, over and over until her knuckles were raw and skinned. Finally she draped the dress on the branches to dry and crept into the cave. She was clad only in her chemise and drawers and she couldn’t stop the violent shivering. She curled up as tightly as she could and sat at the entrance, rocking back and forth. When the sun finally rose and brought a blessed warmth to the air, she stayed there, crying, but keeping the cries close to her.

She had returned to the house, circling back to what was familiar. She had entered through the back door into the kitchen, suddenly ravenous, searching for food. Saliva had filled her mouth and dribbled down the corner of her lips. There was a bag of buns on the table and she ate two immediately, almost choking on the dry, stale pastry. She sawed off a piece of bread from the loaf that the boys had left and chewed at the end of a piece of cheese. She had moved as carefully as she could but, without knowing it, she banged the pots on the stove as she looked for more food. The boys had awakened and George, with Freddie behind him, came down to the kitchen. He laughed when he saw her and immediately started to mock her, to jeer at her hunger. “You’re going to get it,” he mimed. “They’re going to throw you in jail for killing your mother. They’re looking for you. You’re in for it this time.”

He pretended to put a rope around his neck, pull it tight, and dropped his head to one side, broken. “And your shit comes out,” he said. He lifted his nightshirt and showed her how that happened, laughing all the time. Freddie had crouched in the corner of the room and he watched, frozen in dread, unable to help.

Perhaps none of that would have provoked her to murder, although she was so frightened. She would just have run away again. However, George knew what had happened before with the kidnapped baby, and eager for more cruelty he turned to that. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, pulling back his lips so they glistened raw and red. He held up his hand, the fingers glued together. He rocked the baby in his arms, making soothing gestures, but it was done to belittle her tenderness, to mock her love for the infant girl. Delighted at the reaction he had evoked in Lily, he pointed at her, cackling, tugging again at his mouth.

Then, sated in his fun, he turned to the cupboard, intending to get himself a mug or plate.

She seized the bread knife, ran around the table, and stabbed him. Once, twice, and again, while the hot blood shot out in an arc, drenching her.

She had lost any sense of how long she had been by the river. The way she had when she was in prison, she had taken herself into a trance, not moving, taking refuge in a world where she wasn’t cold, where her mother and George were still alive, and where she was holding the baby again, caressing it, basking in the perfect smiles, the flawless hands.

She might have stayed there until she was discovered, but on the third morning a heavy rain began to fall, pocking the river, penetrating the opening of her den. Finally, not even Lily could withstand the discomfort and cold. She uncurled herself. The pain in her limbs as the blood flowed again was excruciating. She had to stand up. She eased herself out of the cave and reluctantly stretched her arms. There was no colour in the world. The sky, the trees, the river were all leached of brightness. The rain was hitting her face and bare shoulders and arms, cold and punishing. She shook her head, trying to get away but she couldn’t. Close by was her dress. It was as soaked as the ground, but it offered some comfort. She reached for it and as she did, the soft, muddy earth gave way and she slipped. Unable to gain her balance she fell into the deep pool where the river was dammed. Her wide drawers twisted around her legs. Momentarily a primitive panic seized her, an instinct for life. She gasped for air but she swallowed water instead. Choking, she drew it up her nose, down her throat, into her lungs. She thrashed frantically but to no avail. The river was overpowering her. Perhaps another person would have fought harder, been able to free herself. Lily’s struggles were soon only halfhearted. She had so little to come back to life for.