Vivika Widow's Blog, page 81

COMING SOON!

 

The latest novel from Vivika Widow. Coming January 2017.

A murderous comedy from the author of ‘Maestro’ and ‘Red Snow’

Join our mailing list @ vivikawidow.uk for all the latest updates.

 

 

Knock, Knock Episode 8

The evening played out as it always did. The patrons came to the Knock, Knock club, ate, drank and applauded the performances – Mostly Tabitha’s. It was as though there were unaware of the horrors that lay in wait. The night before, when I had tried to escape Dennis – the club manager – had assured me that he would find a way to bring me so far into the club that there would be no escaping. He was vindictive and a monster in his own right but I think the real reason he was so keen to keep me around was so that he wouldn’t be alone. Tabitha had known him for years but with the murder of his father and disappearance of his son he couldn’t trust her. The girls in the club adored him and the patrons loved him but it was a front he put on for them. I was the only one he felt he could talk to, for that he would keep me around.

I kept notes in my head. If I did manage to escape their clutches I would return to my old life as a reporter with the most triumphant article ever featured in the ‘Coldford Chronicle’. I couldn’t risk anyone finding hand written notes so for the time being I kept everything in my head.

A woman had come to the club. She was on her own and she wasn’t a regular face. I could only surmise that she had no idea what the club was about. She was a little unsteady on her feet when she arrived and as the night drew on she drank more and more. Her voice became louder and she spilled wine onto one of the girls serving dinner. She had been calling at the stage and trying to engage those around her in conversation. Most of them weren’t interested. Some of them were even made uncomfortable by her loud, brassy obnoxiousness.

Dennis approached her. She instantly took a shine to him and tried to kiss him. She removed herself from her table and hung on him at the bar for the rest of the night. Tabitha came off stage after her performance. She had changed from her onstage costume into grey trousers and a long grey coat.

“Going somewhere?” I asked.

Tabitha swallowed down a glass of whiskey and slid the glass back to, Lisa, the girl behind the bar. “We all are,” she said with a grin. She pinched my left cheek. “It must be driving you crazy not having been outside the club in all this time.”

Dennis put the drunk girl’s coat around her shoulders. She lifted herself onto her tip toes to kiss him again but he turned his head and she met his cheek instead.

“Where are we going?” I asked. My notes were still drawing in my head.

“To a little party,” said Tabitha, pulling my coat from the coat stand and throwing it to me. “You can see first hand what your Grandfather created.”

Tabitha, Dennis, the drunk girl and I left the Knock, Knock club that night. One of us was never to return.

***

The drunk girl ushered us into her home.

“I thought we might have something of a small party,” said Dennis lifting a bottle of whiskey from a badly treated side board. There was a beaten old sofa and a chair by the window but not much else. The girl looked a little disappointed that Tabitha and I had come with them.

Tabitha pulled me onto the sofa beside her. The drunk girl stumbled around her living room smiling to herself. Her brunette hair was in disarray. She took the whiskey back from Dennis, threw the lid aside and began drinking straight from the bottle. With a mouthful she finally managed to press her lips against Dennis’. Dennis looked to us. The drunk girl hadn’t noticed him pushing her back. Tabitha was shaking with anticipation beside me. Dennis flashed us a smile. I was as unaware as the drunk girl.

“This girl is wild isn’t she?” Dennis laughed.

“You said you wanted a party,” she groaned. I could barely understand her slurred words.

“We shouldn’t be here,” I said to Tabitha. “Let’s just leave the woman be.”

Tabitha took my arm. “Nonsense, Samuel,” she said.

The drunk girl slumped into a chair by the window, pulling Dennis with her. Dust particles danced in the air.

Dennis straightened up. The woman’s eyes were closed. She had either passed out or Dennis had pacified her.

Dennis removed a cigarette from his pocket. He placed it between his lips but didn’t light it. He watched from the window.

Tabitha stood. She went to the drunk girl, wrapped her arm around her neck and pulled her to her feet. The drunk girl’s eyes flickered but she didn’t waken. A soft smile caressed her painted lips.

Tabitha ran her finger delicately over her neck. “This vein here is quite extraordinary. A single laceration can cause instant death. Its the same vein that wild animals will target when they are looking for a quick kill.” The drunk girl giggled. She probably found Tabitha’s soft caress quite ticklish. “What do they call it?”

Dennis didn’t look round. He still watched from the window. “Do I look like a doctor?”

Tabitha shrugged off his impatience. “Well it doesn’t really matter,” she replied. She drew a blade from her coat. I tried to stop her, I swear I did, but it was too late. She cut the woman’s throat and let the blood spill down her front. The woman gargled. Tabitha had been a little off with her cut so it wasn’t instant death. I had to look away as the woman struggled for breath before finally falling to fate. Tabitha, still laughing, let the woman drop limp onto the floor. She licked the blood from the tips of her fingers.

“Mama!?” came a small voice in the doorway. Two little girls with filthy faces and cheap, oversized clothing looked on in horror as their mother lay dead. Tabitha’s grey eyes shone with excitement. She lowered herself to their height. The girls were confused. In Tabitha’s round, youthful face they saw maternal pleasantness but in her cold gaze they saw danger.

“Tabitha, please don’t!” I pleaded.

Enjoy this? Visit www.vivikawidow.uk for more thrills, chills and blood spills.

Catch up with the previous episodes!

Knock, Knock Episode 7

Knock, Knock Episode 6

‘Knock, Knock’ The story so far. Episodes 1 – 5

The Unwanted Throne

The gulls cried and the waves crashed. The island kingdom of Alnwick had been consumed by two weeks of mourning. King Robert had passed and now his eldest son Malcolm was the rightful ruler. Malcolm was preparing to abdicate his throne. His birthright was a burden he had never wanted. In the cover of darkness he would depart to the East to live in quiet simplicity with Mae Ling, the woman who had stolen his heart.

Malcolm was strong and kind. He had all the attributes of a great king but since he wasn’t fully committed to his duty he felt the task lay better with his younger brother, Edmond. Edmond was equally as kind but he was but a boy of sixteen and not ready to rule a kingdom.

Malcolm looked out onto the sea. The salty air washed across his face.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Edmond.

Malcolm lay a gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder. “The throne of Alnwick should only be occupied by a ruler who is wholehearted. My mind is constantly driving me elsewhere. I can think of no one better for our people than you, little brother.”

Edmond had always looked upon Malcolm with admiration but his decision to abandon his people was difficult to understand.

“If you leave you can never come back,” Edmond reminded him.

Malcolm offered a smile, filled with warmth but lacking in intensity. “I leave today because I never wish to come back.”

Edmond opened his arms, wrapped them around his brother and embraced him. He lowered his voice and whispered in his ear. “You are a coward. You are running away from your responsibility and I will never forgive you. The moment you leave these shores you become an enemy of this real and as its king I will bring you to call.”

Malcolm stepped back, pushing Edmond away from him. He seemed a little shaken at first but then he laughed. “Save some of that fire in your belly for your council. You are going to need every last drop of it.”

Mae Ling approached them. “We have to go,” she urged. Her long emerald robes trailed in the soft white sand. A boat lay in wait for them.

Malcolm embraced his brother again. “Forget your childish tantrums,” he said. “If this is to be our last, we will not part in such a way.”

Edmond’s shoulders depressed. He clasped his hands together in front of him. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset.”

Malcolm sighed. “You will be king. You apologise to no one,” he said. “Learn that and you will be a greater king than I would ever have been.”

“Will you not change your mind?” asked the younger.

“The time for that is gone. For us this is goodbye.”

Mae Ling kissed Edmond on both cheeks. She took Malcolm’s hand and they crossed the beach to their waiting vessel.

Edmond returned alone to Eccleshall to face his people and accept his new place as king.

***

When Eccleshall was alerted the abdication of Malcolm, the mother of the princes – Jane – wept herself dry of tears.

“I have buried a husband and today I lose a son,” she had said to her youngest, clutching his hand gently. She had aged rapidly in a short space of time. Deep lines had formed around her eyes which leaked despair. Her copper coloured hair had dulled.

“You still have me mother,” Edmond kissed her hand. “You will always have me.”

The Queen Regent took a sharp intake of breath. She caressed her cheek. “You are a darling boy Edmond,” she said. “ Alnwick needs you.”

The Royal Council of Alnwick brought together noblemen from all round the island to the capital city of Harborough where Eccleshall lay. Not crowned yet, Edmond had chosen not to occupy his father’s throne but instead sat on a high backed wooden chair next to it.

“The behaviour of Prince Malcolm is disgraceful,” uttered Lord Miley, a very stern man from the upper shores. He took no notice of Edmond. Edmond sat quietly and allowed the Lords to conduct their conversation.

“We need to make this change as quickly and as smoothly as we can,” stated Lord Pilrick of the lower coast.

Lord Miley rang his hands in frustration. “What will the people say when it isn’t Malcolm occupying the throne?”

An argument erupted. Edmond stood. The Lords were too busy bickering over something they had already agreed they couldn’t change.

“If I may,” Edmond called over them.

Lord Pilrick rubbed his ample stomach and bowed low. “Of course, his Highness must have his say.”

The Lords of the council stared at at them. Most of them had known him as a baby in his mother’s arms. He was an adorable, fair haired prince who they enjoyed seeing playing in the yards of Eccleshall and learning the princely traits but they would never see him as more than that. He was much beloved but none of the Lords took Edmond seriously as a king. Now that he had their attention Edmond had forgotten what he had wanted to say, if he had had anything to say at all.

“I’ll do my best,” he muttered and sat back down.

Lord Miley said, “Of course you will.” His condescending tones where as good as a roll of his eyes. He was disgruntled that the little boy would play king whilst the adults attempted to conduct the true business of Alnwick.

Edmond had watched his father conduct the council before. Robert would never have allowed them to rattle on they way they were. Edmond knew he was failing before he had even been given the crown. He cursed Malcolm for his selfishness. He cursed his brother for even thinking he deserved to leave. Mostly, he cursed Malcolm for not taking him with him.

A heavy bell chimed alerting the council to a visitor. It was only with that the Lords silenced. An Alnwickian guard pushed open the door. He stood tall, stared straight ahead and bellowed, “His Grace, Justus Vosoloo, Royal Council of Navaria!”

In stepped a man with a looming presence. His fingers were laced in gold and his towering, muscular frame was clothed in the finest of red and black fabrics. His strong, square jaw was set in bemusement.

“Alnwick welcomes Your Grace,” began Lord Miley, “But I must say, your timing doesn’t serve you well.”

Justus removed a golden handkerchief and wiped his forehead. The warmth of Alnwick bathed his soft, black skin in the dew of perspiration. “King Roman of Navaria has requested my presence here. He received word from Prince Malcolm that he no longer wished to be king of this great realm. He was instead leaving the duty to Prince Edmond.”

Lord Pilrick’s brow had knotted in a severe frown. “With respect, Your Grace, but what business is that of Navaria?”

“None,” replied Justus. “My king just wished me to offer respect to His Highness. He was concerned that in the bounds of great knowledge of this council his little cousin may find himself overwhelmed. I’m here to observe and offer advice if called upon, nothing more.”

Lord Miley grunted. “This is a very difficult time for Alnwick. We do not need some foreign devil making it worse.”

Justus raised his voice slightly. His resonating tones danced around the walls of the hall. “I beg to differ, My Lord,” he answered. “This situation will only be difficult it you allow it to be. Of course I can only go by what I hear but I’m sure Prince Edmond will make a fine king.”

Justus crossed his arms over his chest, observing closely. Edmond stared at a portrait of his father that hung on the wall. It had been created early in his reign. Robert was a pillar of masculine strength. He was broad shouldered, strong armed and with a full beard. Edmond pushed himself to be something of the man his father was.

“I want to speak to Justus,” he cried out. The Lords slipped into stunned silence once again. “Get out!” he called.

The looked at each other for approval before finally granting the prince his request. When they were alone Edmond gasped, the pressure from the council lifting from his chest.

“I can’t do this,” he admitted.

Justus pulled him from the wooden chair and onto his feet. “Of course you can,” he said. “It’s in your blood.” He pushed Edmond onto the throne. “Don’t let them bully you.”

“I still can’t believe what Malcolm has done,” Edmond stated.

Justus took the wooden seat. “Sometimes we take a path different from the one others think we should. A lot of responsibility has fallen on you but I’m here to help, Your Highness, or should I say, Your Majesty.”

***

The Alnwickian Lords did what they could to keep Justus at bay. His powerful presence at Edmond’s side had made things difficult for them.

With Malcolm gone they would have Edmond as a suitable figurehead on the throne. He would smile and wave at the people whilst they made the true decisions. Justus was encouraging Edmond to have more opinions of his own which was dangerous.

Edmond had been summoned to the hall. He tried carrying an air of superiority but it only resulted In his shoulders hunching. He tried to keep strong eye contact but every time he was addressed he would tremble. As a prince he had had no fear. He had given public addresses and he had held the crowd to his opinion but as a king it was more difficult, more real.

He noticed that Justus was absent. “Where is His Grace?” he asked. Some of the Lords looked up but none of them answered.

“His Majesty would like to take a walk,” said Lord Miley.

Edmond had not made any such request, “Would I?”

“Of course,” Lord Miley insisted. “It’s such a nice day and we would love to hear your thoughts on the future of Alnwick.”

Edmond was flattered. He was making progress with his council. Their true intentions were not apparent to him.

“If he can form opinions, let him form ours,” Lord Pilrick had said earlier that morning.

They pulled the boy away from his Navarian guard dog. They were confident that by the end of the day they could have Edmond dismiss Justus and have him sent back across shore where he belonged.

As they were heading towards the gardens a young girl tried to push through. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” she cried, waving a note above her head. “I must give this to you,” she insisted.

Edmond felt a sharp tug on his arm. He was dragged away from the girl. “Who was she?” he asked.

Lord Miley and Lord Pilrick shared a stare.

“She’s no one, Your Majesty,” said Miley.

Pilrick dismissed it as though it were of no consequence. “Just a silly girl, nothing to be concerned about.”

The reign of the puppet boy king began. Edmond never forgot the girl. She wasn’t seen around the castle and he worried that he would never learn the urgent message she carried until the of her return when the kingdom of Alnwick would erupt into war.

Enjoy this?

Why not read more about the Kingdoms …

Red Snow AVAILABLE NOW

Or have more little tastes of lands afar right here on this blog:

The King Imposter

The Silhouette

The Dungeons of the Old King’s Castle

Fall to Ruin

The Damned Doll

Lot’s of people say that porcelain dolls are creepy. I always disagreed. I was given my first doll for Christmas back when I was eight and I loved it so much people kept flooding me with more and more. I’m now thirteen and I still love my dolls.

“Their horrid. How can you sleep at night with all of them staring at you like that,” my best friend Otto says. He’s not the free spirit I am. He thinks I don’t notice but he tends to turn them to face the wall if we happen to be watching TV at my house. I can see his eyes dart every now and again to them to check they haven’t moved on their own.

The bright pink walls of my room are lined with various porcelain faces. My favourite one is one that always sits in the middle. She wears a purple dress. Her eyes are beetle black and she has a thick head of spiral curls like my own. Dad brought her back from a trip to the lesser known country of Mergovia. He was on a photography assignment from his newspaper when he saw an old woman who easily looked like she had seen one hundred years. She was selling the dolls so he brought one home for me. He said that the woman had tried to usher him some kind of warning but he didn’t understand the language. He always did have a flair for the dramatic.

I named her ‘Hate’ because of all my dolls – their faces normally serene, shiny eyes vacant – she looked like she was scowling a little. Given her stern expression and crazy hair I always imagined her angry. I would tell Hate all of the things that were bothering me. She wouldn’t dismiss them or tell me that I was over reacting like most people did. She listened. She scowled on my behalf and I felt better. I had a good thing going with Hate. That was until the night I woke her up.

It had been a particularly bad day. I had failed a Spanish test, I dropped my lunch tray in view of everyone and I had been walking around all afternoon with toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Rather than telling me this the girls felt it better to giggle at my expense. It wasn’t until I met Otto after school and he told me was it finally removed. My name being Tally, it lead to the new nickname ‘Toilet Paper Tally’. I will now bear this new name until I can talk dad into letting me move school.

I was relaying all of this to Hate, spilling my inner nastiness. She stared down at me with her scowl like she felt the pain of each of my words.

I smiled, content that I had managed to shoulder my humiliation. I switched my lamp off and laid my head on my pillow. I gave one last look at Hate and could have sworn she was angled more towards me than she had been. Anyway, off to sleep I went.

In the middle of the night I heard a soft singing. It was a tune that seemed familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. It was a soft little voice that sounded younger than my own. There was someone else in my room! I looked up. This time Hate definitely had moved. She was staring straight at me.

“Well look who’s awake,” she said in a sharp, shrill shriek that wasn’t as soft as her singing voice.

I could only stare at her. How often does a doll come to life? Too often I’d say.

“Aren’t you going to lift me down from here or are you just going to keep staring at me like a dim witted moron.”

“You’re not real,” I gasped.

Hate shook her head. “You can bet your ass I’m real.”

“Dolls don’t come to life.” I tried rubbing my eyes. My brain told me I was dreaming.

Hate shook her head slowly. It a slow moment that required a lot of effort from her. “This one does. Now get me down from here. We have work to do…”

Enjoy this?

Vivika Widow’s ‘Myths and Tales’ is AVAILABLE NOW

Or for more blog reads check out:

The Little List of Doom

The Day I met My Mummy

Knock, Knock Episode 7

I couldn’t take it any more. I had to get away. Killing the Mayor had been one thing. I had decided to hang around after that and let the story unfold but for my own souls sake I had to escape Tabitha’s murderous intent. I had to distance myself from the Knock, Knock club.

Tabitha had insisted that killing those chosen by the club was the kindest thing to do. “Much like an antibiotic for society.”

I wasn’t swayed. “These people have lives and families. They have fallen on hard times. They need help.”

Tabitha rolled her eyes like I had said the silliest thing in the world. “Since the dawn of time we have operated on a ‘survival of the fittest’ basis. They are suffering and there are others out there who could benefit quite strongly from what little they have. Would you allow a lame dog to suffer or would you put a bullet in its head? On the way to the streets the people we dispose of through this club would have dragged the rest of us with them. With each kill we make, each death request our members put forward, society is now one step closer to functioning again. That’s what we do. That is what this club was set up to do. It’s what your grandfather aimed to do,” she had said.

I still wasn’t entirely sure what the club felt they were achieving. To me it seemed they were a bunch of wealthy psychopaths who felt their titles and positions gave them licence to murder anyone they decided were a burden. They seemed to think that were providing Coldford a great service. They believed it wasn’t murder, it was euthanasia. Tabitha enjoyed It way too much.

“It’s not for me or you to make those kind of decisions,” I stated.

Tabitha shrugged her shoulders. “If you truly believe that then you are nothing like your grandfather.” She looked at her watch. “I’m due on stage in five.”

“I’m leaving,” I said immediately regretted disclosing my plan.

Tabitha gave a throaty laugh. “The moment you step outside this door you will die. Someone will get to you sooner or later. Even if you make it a week, a month or even a year it will be just because our enemies are biding their time. We are better off sticking together.”

Tabitha walked off to the stage. The last I heard was her warming her singing voice.

That night I gathered what little belongings I had brought to the Knock, Knock. I had some ratty old clothes and a photograph of my wife, Theresa, that had been taken on the eve of our wedding day. That seemed a lifetime ago. In fact it didn’t seem like my life at all. That was someone else who had been happy. That was another man’s wife. He was a different Sam Crusow. I was a miserable wretch who knew nothing but the Knock, Knock club.

The club was never empty. In my time staying there, no matter what hour I climbed out of my room at, there was always someone lurking around. I didn’t have much to carry so I shuffled to the bar as though a drink was all I wanted. I would slip out the door I had seen the bar tenders use often that led out onto the alley behind the club.

The lights were out except for the low stage lighting. Dennis was talking to one of the girls, the red headed beauty named Lisa. I always got the impression that she worshipped the ground that Dennis walked on. To him she was a pretty young girl deserving of attention but to her he was an all knowing deity that had chosen to walk among lesser mortals. Dennis looked up as my footsteps scraped across the ground. He squinted through the darkness, noticed it was me and waved. I waved back, not wanting to seem suspicious. I yawned – thinking I had missed my calling as an actor – and lifted one of the bottles. It was gin which I never drank but I had to create a rouse so they would carry on their conversation without paying me any further attention. I stole a quick glance at them. Lisa seemed to be sobbing. Dennis had his hand on her shoulder. I tried the door but it was locked.

‘damn it!’ I groaned. The rattle of the lock had caught Dennis’ attention. I had no choice. It was now or never. I leapt from behind the bar and dashed to the club’s main door. That door was locked too. I felt Dennis’ hand on my shoulder.

“Not tonight bud,” he said, pulling me back. “There’s nothing out there for you,” he added.

I went to bed with no further protest. Drowsiness overcame me and my last thoughts were how to escape the clutches of the Knock, Knock. What I didn’t realise was they had plans of their own. They were going to make sure there would be no turning back for me.

Enjoying the story so far? Subscribe to our newsletter via vivikawidow.uk and receive the latest episode straight to your inbox!

Follow the story from the beginning:

EPISODES 1 – 5

EPISODE 6

The King Imposter

Ravensedge is a mighty kingdom perched high on the Elinway mountains. The king’s residence in the Sparrington Fort had been an impenetrable fortress for generations. The old king, Alfred, had died leaving only his daughter – Princess Anne. With no male heir, Alfred had made a selection amongst his trusted Knights Guard as a suitable successor. Sir William Raleigh had been the most obvious choice. William was a noble knight, a learned man and if the rumours were to be believed, already held the heart of the fair princess. However, to the astonishment of the kingdom, Alfred chose instead Sir Henry Deveraux to be his son in law and therefore king of Ravensedge. Henry too was a fierce knight but he had always struggled to best William in tournaments. Henry focused on his accomplishments more than his learning. Anne didn’t care too much for him either. Something had inexplicably changed Alfred’s mind. The wave of support Alfred had shown towards Henry spread. Anne married him and he was crowned king. Like a creeping curse the people of Ravensedge followed Henry without question. Only Henry himself knew how he came to be on the throne and he would show no mercy to those who would uncover the truth.

It was a warm day in Ravensedge. The sun was high and strong. A cool breeze flowed down the mountain to the luscious greenery and the Wilton Woods that lay at the bottom. King Henry was holding court in the Kings Hall. It was a long room with thin slits for windows. The floors were a heavy marble. Henry sat on the throne of Ravensedge as his subjects brought their concerns to him. The queen’s chair beside him was vacant.

Henry could see that Sir William was eager to speak so he leaned his head on his hand, stifling a yawn and ushered him forward.

“You look a little anxious, Sir William,” said the king. The gold of the crown that circled Henry’s dark feathery hair glinted in what little light the room allowed.

William raised his chin and stood proudly. He would always be Henry’s closest rival, even if no one seemed to remember it so. “It’s been several weeks since the death of King Alfred. It was always his wish to demonstrate the might of Ravensedge across the kingdoms. Now would be the best time to do this. If Your Majesty agrees that a suitable time of mourning has passed.”

A smile broke on Henry’s thin lips. Before Alfred’s travel away from the mortal coil the people of the court barely looked at Henry twice. He was of no noble blood and fought tirelessly to be taken into the Knight’s Guard. Now that they asked his permission for everything he was given a great deal of satisfaction.

“You’re suggesting that we go to war?” asked Henry. “To what end?”

As the king’s dark eyed focus narrowed on him, William ran his fingers through his thick blonde hair nervously. “Imperialism, Majesty, pure and simple.”

Henry laughed. “I like the way you think Sir William. I have always wished to see the kingdoms of Navaria, our closest neighbours, draped in the black and yellow of Ravensedge. It would also be quite a boon to have the wealth of Elgany at our disposal.”

William’s gaze dropped to the vacant chair. “Will the queen not be joining us?”

Henry felt a flutter in his stomach. He was angry what he should be asked such a question.

“She needs her rest,”he replied, probably saying more than he should have. “Pregnant women can be terribly fussy. Only her own maids will see her until she gives birth to my son.” The court was watching him. Their judgemental stares caused his own to lower to the ground. “You impudent knave!” he barked. “You have no right to ask of the queen.”

William bowed low. “I’m so sorry Your Majesty. I meant no offence.”

Henry stood as tall as he could. His chest heaved. “You have overstepped your bounds too many times. I will have your head if it ever happens again.”

***

When the court had cleared Henry told his aides that he wished for some time alone.

“I’m not to be disturbed,” he warned.

“Of course, Majesty,” said the young squire. He was an apple cheeked young boy who hailed from a long noble lineage. Henry had never learned his name. The boy dashed off to see that the knights and nobles met the king’s demands. Henry removed his crown and sighed. He wiped the sweat from his brow. The crown was a much heavier burden than he ever imagined.

Through the Kings Hall was a narrower corridor that led to the south west of the fort. Along the corridor lined images of previous Ravensedge kings, watching Henry with judgemental stares like those of his court.

‘What do they know?’ grunted Henry to himself. ‘They had the throne handed to them by birth. They didn’t have to struggle as I did to become king. Kissing the arse of some old fool just so he’ll give me a second glance and perhaps consider letting me marry his daughter.’

His thoughts carried him through the corridor and up to the second floor of the south west tower. He had the only key to the room. He kept it on him at all times. The long, black, iron key was too important to be entrusted to inferior hands. The door opened with a soft click. As it swung open he was met with a shrill shriek. Anne had thrown herself in the corner. Her flowing, white gown was stained with blood. The stain was heaviest around her pregnant stomach. She was holding a silver dagger in one hand, the other was splayed like the claws of a cat. Her magnificent hair was in disarray. She looked more like a mad witch than a queen.

Henry pulled the dagger out of her clutches. “What have you done!?”

“I will never bear your child!” she screamed. “My womb is for regal children and will never be infected with the dirt of your seed!”

Henry slapped her. She stumbled backwards.”I am your king,” he roared. “You will bear me one hundred children if I order you to do so.”

“My father never wanted you,” she spat venomously. “You are a useless knight then and a joke of a king now. My father wanted William.”

Henry threw her onto the floor. “I am the only one who knows you are here. Where did you get this dagger?”

Anne was breathing heavily. At first she refused to answer, until finally she said, “I will never tell you.”

Henry growled, “Now I have to fetch a doctor. You are lucky you didn’t kill yourself you stupid whore of a woman.”

As Henry locked the door again he heard crash as Anne threw her piss pot against the other side.

When Alfred had first chosen Henry as his successor, Anne had been as compliant as the rest of them. Now she remembered the struggles Henry had trying to prove himself against William. Whatever bewilderment the kingdom had fallen under it was wearing thin. Henry was running out of time.

***

It had been a trip to the surrounding Wilton Woods where everything had changed for Henry. He had been frustrated by his constant humiliations trying to beat William, the king’s failing to acknowledge him and Anne’s refusal to offer him a second glance. He met a tall, skulking creature named Benedict there who offered him the chance for all his dreams to come true. A month had passed and all his dreams were beginning to take the shape of nightmares. He had to find Benedict again. He had to make Anne succumb to him and have his child. With a son of true royal blood his rule would never be questioned again.

He waited at the same spot he had first met the unusual man, until darkness began to charge across the sky. He was preparing to leave when he heard a rustling in the foliage of the forest floor. There was Benedict again. He was so pale he almost glowed in the dusk.

“I get the sense I don’t have a happy customer,” he said with an underlying shrill malice. A wide grin spread from ear to ear.

“Anne hates me. My knights want to go to war. It won’t be long before they all remember.”

Benedict emitted a throaty laugh. “You were warned that ambition can be toxic. You can only control people for a time. Sooner or later their minds become their own again.”

Henry became flustered. “I need more of the drink you gave me. I need to secure my place as king and then it won’t matter if they have their own minds. They won’t be able to question my crown.”

Benedict stretched out his arm and turned the palm to the sky. A small glass vial appeared containing luminescent green liquid. “Now I want you to be sure of this. The last dosage left quite a bitter taste.”

Henry snatched the vial and gulped down the contents. Benedict watched him intently. “Aren’t you going to ask what the price is? Ambition like that doesn’t come for free.”

Henry climbed onto his waiting steed. “If it will make Anne bring me a son and controls my knights I don’t care what the price is.”

“I’ll seek you out when payment is due,” called Benedict as the king rode back to his castle. “You will care for the price,” he grinned. “And you will pay it.”

OUT OF KEY; adapted from Vivika Widow’s MAESTRO

The life of a student is tumultuous. For most it is the time when young men and women learn the delicate balance between work and play. For a music student there are particularly high expectations, especially for Vincent Baines who’s mother was a first chair cellist on one of the world’s leading orchestras. This orchestra happened to be under the direction of his father – Fredrick Baines – also a prominent musician.

Vincent abandoned the travelling life of the orchestra that he had become so used to. He came to Filton University to complete his studies. He had been a concert pianist by the time he was twelve so the qualifications were merely a formality, but one it was insisted he had. He adored the twinkling ivory of the piano but he was drawn most strongly to the violin. The violin was the only instrument that fully understood how cruel the world could be and in turn could turn its sobs into the most triumphant of sounds.

His first class had begun ten minutes before so Vincent rushed across the courtyard clutching his violin in a battered old case he had been given for his tenth birthday. Too busy reading the paper which stated ‘Professor Tim Heath – Room 106’ he almost collided with the door of the main building. The receptionist saw him struggling with the case so rushed over to help him by holding the door open.

“Thank you,” Vincent gasped as he pushed indoors.

The receptionist – an older woman with sparkling silver hair and a gentle face – let the door go when the student was free of its grasp. “You better hurry. Professor Heath’s class has already started.

Vincent made to dash to the right. “Young man!” the receptionist called after him. “Room 106 is that way,” she said pointing to the hall on the left.

Vincent quickly changed direction and made his way to class.

He could hear instruments warming up. A booming, authoritative voice called over them. Vincent pushed the door open, hoping to slip in unnoticed.

Professor Heath, dressed all in black but for an emerald tie which was pulled down slightly, was holding his large hands in the air.

“This is our first day so lets hope we don’t continue to sound like a cat sent through a mincer, tale first.” He turned and his owl like gaze fell upon Vincent. “Ah our star pupil!”

He gripped Vincent’s free arm and pulled him closer. “Listen up everyone!” be boomed again. The warming instruments fell silent. The eyes of the entire class darted their way towards the new arrival. “This is Vincent Baines.” Professor Heath stopped. “You are Vincent Baines right?” Vincent nodded so the teacher continued, “He is the son of the great Fredrick Baines. If you ever want to hear what good music sounds like, listen to his recordings.” After having successfully alienated Vincent from his classmates he pushed him towards them. Their puzzled looks turned to derisive stares. Vincent chose to sit next to a fellow violinist, a raven haired girl in a black tshirt and torn jeans. She was holding a beautiful black violin with red trimming.

“I’m a big fan of your dad,” she said as Vincent took a seat and began to fish his own violin from the case. “He’s one of the best,” she added.

“He’s something else alright,” Vincent agreed.

By the time the hour was over, Vincent had learned that the girls name was Ruth Browning. She had attended Filton because it was the furtherest away she could get away from her home life. From her tshirt and worn jeans Vincent assumed she had spent what money she had on tuition and her beautiful violin. Her long hair was combed simply which could be a result of having no elder female around to show her anything more elaborate. This was probably also the reason why her eyes were shadowed heavily in black eyeliner whilst the rest of her face was void of make up.

He quickly deciphered her life story without her divulging it to him. She was a forgotten child with a drunkard father – probably abusive to him. She had never had any proper parental guidance so she was fiercely independent. She was closed off but that passiveness in her manner showed how frightened she was. From an early age Vincent had been a keen observer. He found that more could be revealed about a person in their mannerisms, dress and general demeanour than they could reveal themselves.

Vincent and Ruth became fast friends. l They were equally as talented and equally as bemused by their classmates. Together they found a common bond. Ruth had a history. It was written on her face. Vincent was drawn to it. He very much wanted to read her story.

***

Time moved on like the unstoppable force that it is. Attending classes became routine.

“I gotta run,” said Ruth when the regular Tuesday afternoon class had ended. She kissed Vincent’s left cheek and slipped a note into his right hand. “That’s my address. I’ll see you tonight,” she explained before disappearing into the crowd and away to parts unknown for an appointment that she seemed sketchy on explaining. Ruth wasn’t an affectionate girl but she kissed people a lot. Most people keep a safe, professional distance but Ruth wouldn’t shake hands, she always kissed. The first day they had met, Vincent bought lunch for them both and Ruth hadn’t said ‘thanks’ like most people would, instead she pressed her lips against his. She had even kissed Professor Heath when he had given her some one on one instruction. He was of course uncomfortable with his but Ruth clearly thought nothing of it. It was never with affection, it was almost like a chore she felt she necessary.

Vincent tucked the address into his violin case without looking at it. It wasn’t until he got back to his dorm room he read it. From the moment he had seen her he knew she wasn’t a Filton girl. The way she wore her hair, the quality of her clothing were all giveaways but what stood out the most for Vincent was the subtle way she would observe her surroundings. It was like she was seeing things for the first time. There was a certain admiration in her eyes for the décor. Filton girls expected nothing less.

Ruth lived in a small town of Gainsburg. It was outside of Filton, towards the nearest city, Coldford. Vincent took a bus from the main street which happily stopped outside a coffee shop he had decided was his favourite upon arrival.

The two older women who had perched themselves at the front of the bus were a little disgruntled as Vincent swung his violin case round, trying to pass them whilst still balancing his coffee in his other hand. He knocked the pink hat off one and narrowly missed the face of the other. They both shot deathly stares at him. Vincent smiled politely and said, “So sorry,” but in his mind he was groaning, ‘sit somewhere other than up the driver’s arse and maybe I’ll be able to pass you, old bags.’ The journey to Gainsburg took about an hour. A few passengers had alighted then disappeared again except the whining old witches at the front.

As Vincent passed them again, holding his violin like a javelin stick he could still feel their derision. They stayed on the bus, probably heading onto Coldford. People with that kind of attitude always came from the city. City folk rarely let the little things go.

He followed Ruth’s address to a run down apartment building. He checked the address again but he already knew he was in the right place. There was a buzzer entry system but when he pushed the button for Ruth’s apartment it made no noise. He tried the door and found he could push it open.

He climbed to the third floor where Ruth lived. The hallway was littered, the lights were blinking, ready to give up their life to the darkness. The air was thick with the smell of urine.

Ruth’s door was painted a sharp red unlike the flaky brown of the others. Vincent knocked twice heavily then instinctively turned towards the stairs to watch for anyone coming.

The door was pulled open with a heavy creak and Ruth greeted him.

He held his violin up. “Ready to practice?” he asked.

Ruth had tied her hair up in a red bandanna. She pulled the door open wider and let him in. “Did you find the place easy enough?” she asked as Vincent followed her down a narrow little corridor decorated with hand drawn pictures of trees, strange shadowy figures and the letter S. She seemed quite keen on the letter S.

The single room that served as both lounge and bedroom was cluttered with pizza boxes and takeaway containers. More drawings covered the walls that underneath were painted a light purple. On her magazine covered coffee table she had sat three vanilla scented pillar candles “I’m sure you are used to much better than this,” she commented when she noticed Vincent looking around.

“Its home isn’t it?” he replied. Vincent had travelled so much as a child with his parents and the orchestra he never had anywhere he felt he could truly call home. What came before the Baines’ adopted him didn’t bare thinking about.

Vincent cleared a space on the sofa and sat his violin case down. Removing the violin and bow he settled into his playing stance, perched at the edge of his seat.

Ruth’s violin was sat against the wall. She lifted it, rummaged a little while for her bow and sat beside Vincent.

They played together through melodies they were familiarising themselves with. Ruth had become so absorbed, Vincent stopped and watched her play on her own. Her composure, the timeless beauty of her face contrasted with the rustic surroundings of her apartment. Her playing was perfection, her composure statuesque. There were violinists in his parents orchestras who didn’t have such natural and raw talent.

She stopped suddenly. She flicked open her black shadowed eyelids and smiled when she noticed him staring at her. “Rendered you speechless have I?” she quipped.

“You are very good,” he said, the simple words failing to reach the true heights of his admiration. “How long have you been playing?”

Ruth sat her violin down. She snatched up an ashtray, took the half smoked cigarette from within the ashes and placed it between her lips. It must have tasted fowl, Vincent surmised. Judging by the several other half smoked cigarettes in the glass tray cut crudely in the shape of a leaf – she was in the habit of leaving them half smoked. She was a lonely girl, having to have something to go back to, although she would never admit it.

“My gran gave me a violin one of her boyfriends left behind. I was about seven. My dad got drunk one night and smashed it up. He felt bad about it so he bought me a new one. It was probably the most expensive thing in the whole house. He made sure I learned if he was shelling out money on a useless instrument.”

Ruth was like a work of art. Beautiful at first glance but the more you observed the colour choices, brush strokes and tone the more of its story is revealed.

When Ruth spoke of her father she always cleared her throat and clouded her voice in a nostalgic tone, like she was recalling a horrid memory. It was very subtle, most people wouldn’t notice but most people didn’t pay as much attention as Vincent. Because of those minor changes in vocals Vincent could deduce that her parents were dead. The gran had been something of an aside thought in her anecdote, she was probably dead too. Mrs Baines had always admired how observant her little boy was. Vincent couldn’t understand why others couldn’t see the world as well as he could.

They played on together for a little while longer. Around eight Ruth decided to call it a night.

“Are you sure?” Vincent pushed. “I’m in no rush.”

Ruth shrugged her shoulders. When it reached six she had started to become edgy. She kept glancing at the clock. She wanted Vincent to leave but he wasn’t ready to tear himself away. He could tell she was in trouble. You didn’t need Vincent’s special intuition to be able to deduce that.

“Are you alright?” he asked. She was shaking a little as she leaned her violin back against the wall again. There was a case beside the weathered grey sofa. “You should keep your violin in a case. It’s such a nice one you have it would seem a shame for it to get damaged.”

“Don’t touch that!” Ruth cried but it was too late. The latch on the case was broken. It swung open and spilled out hundreds of photographs.

“I’m so sorry,” said Vincent.

Ruth rushed to scoop them up but not before Vincent caught sight a small girl. She had dark hair like Ruth’s. Her eyes were wide and frightened. She was reaching out to the camera. She had such similarities to Ruth that one might have mistaken her for Ruth as a girl if it were not for the mole that Ruth had on her left cheek that was absent from the little girl.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent said again as Ruth closed the case over with some ferocity.

“You had better go,” she said. “That bus back to Filton can be a bitch.”

Vincent packed his violin away. He struggled to remove his gaze away from where the photos were hiding. Ruth was hiding something that even Vincent couldn’t deduce.

The girl in the photograph had been in distress but who was she? Why was Ruth keeping those photographs? Vincent wandered into the chill of the evening air. The kiss she had given him in the doorway was still buzzing on his forehead. She wanted his help. He knew it. Even if she hadn’t said it she wanted him to stick around.

There was a small park area just across from the apartment building. It was the local councils way of appeasing their conscience, knowing that the children living in the most deprived areas had a broken swing or rusted chute could give them some semblance of happiness. What more could they want? There were two benches. One was bathed in the lamplight the other cast in shadow. Vincent chose the dark. It looked directly onto Ruth’s apartment. Vincent watched for about an hour. He pulled the collar of his coat up as the temperature dropped rapidly. Finally, the light from Ruth’s lounge went out. Minutes later she appeared in the doorway with a cigarette between her lips and pulling the door over as tightly as she could. She placed both hands in the pocket of her denim coat and disappeared up the street in an above average speed.

Vincent wondered if she wanted him to follow her. Probably, but not tonight. The bus to Filton was a bitch after all.

***

Ruth hadn’t come to class the following day. Vincent had decided he would visit her that evening and make sure she was okay. He tried calling the number she had given him several times but there was no answer. The first time her answering machine clicked on with a generic voice that came with the phone. He hesitated and hung up. Then he convinced himself that she would really would have wanted to hear from him so he called again.

“Ruth? It’s Vincent. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Call me.”

The classes had broken for a lunch hour. Since Ruth was absent Vincent sat out front alone. The air was dry but icy. He knew he was hungry but he couldn’t eat. His mind was too consumed with thoughts of Ruth. He stood up from the bench outside the music building. He couldn’t contemplate an afternoon of practice when he knew Ruth was in trouble.

Another young student took his place on the bench. “Vincent Baines right?” he piped up.

Vincent looked back over his shoulder. He was a self assured man. His long legs were crossed non chalantly and he had the wide grin of the cat who didn’t just get the cream but devoured it. Vincent didn’t like him.

“Yes,” replied the musician cooly. He really wanted to go to Ruth’s house and check on her. If she wasn’t there he could get in somehow and have a look at the photos of the scared little girl. Just to be sure she was okay. She needed him.

“You’re friends with Ruth Browning right?” The young man on Vincent’s bench added, “She’s bad news bro.”

Vincent’s teeth gritted at the use of the term ‘bro’. He hated when people used such colloquial terms towards him. It was so boorish.

Vincent raised his chin. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about and I’m not your bro.”

The detest washed over the young man. He was unfazed but his self assured smile faded. “Just be careful having her as a girlfriend.” He was trying to be reasonable now that he realised over familiarity with the musician was not working.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Vincent volunteered which was more information than he normally would be willing to give to the dimwit on his bench. “It’s not like that.”

“So you’re gay then?” he called after Vincent who had tried to walk away from him.

He was making Vincent angry. Vincent didn’t like to get angry. It came from before his adoption by the Baines’. He wasn’t allowed to be angry. This young man was making him very angry indeed.

“I don’t see how that is any of your business!” Vincent spat. “I also fail to comprehend what different it makes.” It wasn’t like him to become so temperamental. He was a calm young man, a good boy. He was normally more concerned for others than himself.

The moron on the bench raised his hands. “I’m sorry, but she was with one of my friends. He’s a bit of a playboy so when he got up to leave …”

“That’s despicable form treating her that way,” Vincent snarled. He was starting to feel angrier than he ever did as a boy.

The young man didn’t seem much concerned by this. “Well she thought so too. She went crazy mad. She picked up a kitchen knife and cut him pretty bad. His hands were shredded, his arms needed stitches and his chest is scarred.”

Vincent calmed down at this image. It even brought a smile to his lips. “Well, that’ll teach him.”

This did seem to stir something In the idiotic bench warmer. “She didn’t say no or anything. She knew exactly what she was doing. He didn’t know what more she could possibly want from him.”

Vincent let a snort of derision flare from his nostrils. He had to leave then. He had to catch the bus to Gainsburg. He had to check on Ruth.

***

The bus to Gainsburg didn’t seem as long as the previous journey. Vincent had left his violin back at the university so manoeuvring was much easier. It was still early in the afternoon so there was only one other passenger aboard – a woman in her mid thirties who kept her suede hat on. She spent most of the journey staring from the window.

Vincent rushed to Ruth’s apartment. He wasn’t exactly sure what he would find but his heart was racing. On the first stairway of the apartment a old man was stretched out. Vincent couldn’t decide if he was drunk, drugged or both. His chest was rising and falling steadily so Vincent stepped over him.

He knocked on Ruth’s door. There was no answer. He pushed open the letter box. He could see down her hallway into the lounge but there was no sign of life within.

Vincent pushed the door open. Ruth never locked her door. She often told him so. She claimed that apart from her violin there was nothing worth stealing. As Vincent let himself in and crossed the threshold of her home he thought of how dangerous a philosophy this was. Any weirdo could come wandering in.

In the lounge the violin wasn’t standing in the corner. The case, however, was on the floor. It had been thrown open – empty.

There was a scorched box by the window. Vincent’s instincts told him that the key to Ruth’s troubles lay in that box.

He pulled it open and there were the photographs. Some of them had been burnt badly but most were still intact. He lifted one examined it more closely. It was the little girl he had seen before. Her eyes still staring, terrified. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her mouth was gagged with a piece of black cloth. The ground she was sat on was filthy, the lighting very low.

“What are you doing?” a voice behind him dragged him back to reality. He hadn’t heard Ruth come home.

Vincent dropped the photograph. “I was worried about you. I thought you might be in trouble. I wanted to help you.”

Ruth was eerily calm, her face stoic, her lips pinned in an expressionless clench. “It’s too late to help me,” she said. “It’s over.”

“The little girl was your sister wasn’t she.”

“Yes,” she answered simply. “And my daughter.”

“Who did that to her? Who killed her?” Vincent didn’t have to look at any more photos to know what grisly end the child had met.

“I did,” Ruth said. She gripped the collar of Vincent’s coat. “I told the police everything today. I couldn’t go on pretending. They are on not far behind and you don’t want to be here when they arrive.”

***

“Ruthy! Ruthy!” she squealed. “Please let me go! I’m scared Ruthy!”

Dad was a drunk, mother was a stranger she could easily pass on the street without realising. Dad was gone and now Ruth was expected to look after the little brat kid that she didn’t even like. Ruthy couldn’t take it any more.

“We’re going on a trip,” she had told the child at first. She gripped Ruth’s hand with dumb naivete. She even skipped ahead when they were finally on the forest path. Her red coat was like a siren in the distance. An old house began to emerge. It had once belonged to Ruth’s grandmother. It had long since been abandoned. No one ever came there.

Ruth had the only key. She opened the door, wincing at the stench of dampness.

“I don’t want to stay here,” complained the little girl. “I want to go home.”

“You don’t have a home,” Ruth scolded. “You are just living in mine.”

The house was over run with wicker furniture. Ruth took the seat by the window. She enjoyed reading in that window chair as a child. This house had been the only place in her miserable existence that felt like home to her. The little girl didn’t realise how lucky she was to be in such a place. She didn’t have to contend with half of what Ruthy did. She didn’t have the responsibility, the horrid memories. Even the violin that she loved so much was a constant reminder of her father’s sick, twisted shame. The little one wouldn’t have to endure that would she?

Ruth grabbed the little girl by the arm and pulled her off amidst sobs and uncertain, terrified screams.

She kept her alive for a little while but the constant visits became too much. Ruth had to take care of herself. She was practically a child herself. This was done to her. She was a victim. She didn’t ask for a child. The people who were supposed to protect her turned a blind eye.

She used an axe. She chopped the girl into as little pieces as she could manage. She put the remains through the wood chipper. She didn’t think she would get away with it. She didn’t care.

***

Vincent took the box out of the policewoman’s hands and laid it on his desk.

“It’s just a few things that Ruth wanted you to have. She was quite adamant.”

Vincent shuddered. “The photographs?”

“We’ve kept what was left of them in evidence. There’s nothing of real value importance but she insisted.”

“Thank you officer,” said Vincent as he closed the door behind her. ‘The police can be such busybodies’ he muttered to himself. If they had done their jobs in the first place Ruth would not have suffered the childhood that she did and she would still be playing her beautiful violin. It wasn’t her fault her father was a monster. The police were the ones who failed. If they had stopped him the little girl wouldn’t have been murdered.

Inside the box were some sheets of music from a violin concerto Ruth had been writing. On it, in a very careful hand, was note stating, ‘I hope you can play this for me.’

Underneath it all was a key. It was old, slightly rusted. It had a green tag hanging from it. It was the key to the house that Ruth had kept the sister she had given birth to.

That day in class no one had asked for her. No one had spoken of her. Professor Heath carried on as though she had never been there.

“I have written some music you might like to look at,” said Vincent, passing Ruth’s incomplete concerto.

“Amazing work!” Professor Heath gasped as his eyes darted over the notes. “Your parents’ talent has definitely rubbed off.” He beamed a wide smile.

Vincent thought about telling him that it was actually Ruth’s work but he would wait until they played it, filled it with praise then he would tell them the real composer.

Later that evening, when classes had finished Vincent went to visit Ruth. She was being held in Coldford in a women’s prison called the Monte Fort. He was sat staring at his own reflection in the glass separating the free from the imprisoned. A door opened on the other side. Ruth was ushered in by a brutish woman officer. Ruth’s thick black hair had been shaved off. She was sporting bruises where her eye liner normally was. She was sat down in front of him and the officer – a broad, serious woman who wouldn’t have looked out of place in a wrestling ring.

Vincent lifted the telephone receiver beside him. Unconsciously the clasped it between two fingers and kept it as far away from his face as possible.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Very well,” she said. “It’s like a big party in here.” She smiled through her sarcasm.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” Vincent said sincerely.

Ruth was still smiling. “You would be the only one.”

“Why did you give me that key?” he asked.

Ruth took a quick glance behind her at the officer and lowered her voice so she wouldn’t hear. “I wanted you to have it.”

“What about the police? It’s going to implicate me in your crime.” Vincent followed suit and lowered his voice too.

“They don’t know that’s where I kept the little bitch. They just know I murdered her and that’s all they care about. They’ll never know about it.

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“It’s always been a great place to lock away your problems,” Ruth’s smile widened. “That is my gift to you.”

The officer looked at her thick silver watch. She stepped forward and pulled Ruth back from the window. Ruth dropped the receiver. Waved as she was escorted from the room.

Ever since he was a small boy Vincent had wanted somewhere he could lock his problems away. They always followed him around like an over eager pup. Now they wouldn’t have to thanks to Ruth and her house in the middle of nowhere that even the police had no interest in.

Adapted from Vivika Widow’s thrilling novel Maestro this story occurs prior.

Read more of Vincent Baines as he leaves his student days behind to become a well respected music teacher. His latest charge proves a bit of a handful.

AVAILABLE NOW

Knock, Knock Episode 6

For the few weeks that followed my wife’s death I lived at the Knock, Knock club. I spent most of my time in the spacious but neat room at the top of the building they had granted me. Someone had placed a photograph of my grandfather in it. I only knew this was my grandfather, having never met the man, because of the striking resemblance he bore to my mother. From what I could understand of The Group I was now at the mercy of, they paid homage to him as one of their founding members. I hadn’t gathered enough nerve yet to ask more than they had already told me. The Group was no more than a cult. When my mother gave birth to me – the son of a lowly fisherman – she ran to the city of Coldford from her island home in Westcliff. As the last remaining member of the Crusow family, half of The Group wanted me dead and the other half, like the Knock, Knock club owner Dennis and the cabaret performer Tabitha, were striving to keep me alive.

Since my first visit to the Knock, Knock club my wife, Theresa, had been murdered by those trying to flush me out. Tabitha had put a bullet through the Mayor of Coldford’s head because his wife was a member of The Group and his affairs, gambling and general wasting of the city’s money was beginning to bother her. I should have left then but I was reminded that I had nowhere else to go and that until I embraced The Group’s protection I wouldn’t be safe anywhere. I didn’t fear that. I guess what kept me there so long was that I was a reporter by trade and this was a story too rich to let go. The Group spread to very high places and if I kept quiet long enough I could blow the whole thing open. I realise now that I was being naive in thinking this but I had nothing else.

According to Tabitha The Group allowed protection for its members even through depressions like the one that Coldford was experiencing of at that time. Times were desperate and the members need not suffer the indignity of poverty when there was so much of the flesh, blood and belongings of non members to go around.

I couldn’t really tell if I was being held prisoner or not. After all, having the same name as my grandfather, Samuel Crusow, they held me in such high regard. I never did try to leave. Tabitha – niece of The Group’s co founder, Tawny – made it quite clear that there was no point in me trying. Their influence spread far and wide. The police had already suspected me as being responsible for Theresa’s murder so all they had to do was to call into the members at Coldford police department and I would snapped up and put in a cell for the rest of my life. Given the choice, my room at the club was much more homely.

The girl’s at the club kept me kept me supplied with enough food and drink to feed a large family. When I looked out of the window I could see men, women and children scrounging for a decent meal. The Coldford depression being so severe even the soup kitchens couldn’t stay open. I had taken to putting what food I could into plastic bags and dropping them from the window so the wretched homeless would be able to find something to eat.

I started to become familiar with the patrons and staff at Knock, Knock without actually getting to know them. I didn’t like being on my own so much so I loomed about the club like the Knock, Knock mascot. One afternoon I wandered down into the main club floor. The last stragglers from the matinee sessions were beginning to clear out to make way for the dinner visitors. Dennis was leaning against the bar, overseeing the rush of staff, preparing for the biggest show of the day.

“Take a load off Sam,” he instructed.

Normally only people who know me well enough called me Sam but Dennis was one of those types who treated people like they had been life long friends. It didn’t matter if he had known them five minutes or five years. I had come to expect it from him.

The girl behind the bar, A flaming haired beauty barely out of her teens named Lisa, poured a whiskey and slid it over to me.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“Nothing more than the usual,” he replied.

Tabitha came tearing from backstage. She still wore her onstage costume of gents trousers, white shirt and black waistcoat. Her lips were tightened with fury. She was clutching a blood stained shirt in her hand which she threw at Dennis. Dennis barely flinched.

“One life for another. It’s only fair don’t you think?” he remarked.

“Am I missing something?” I asked. My reporter mind was ready to take note. If there was some division between Tabitha and Dennis I could exploit then perhaps getting away from them would be easier than I thought.

Tabitha just sneered at Dennis. “He was mine!” she snarled before storming backstage again.

Dennis turned into the bar. He threw the bloodied shirt to Lisa. “Trash that will you kid?” he instructed. The girl disappeared through a narrow door at the end of the bar that led onto the alley. No doubt the spot where the Knock, Knock club disposed of its evidence.

“Tabitha told me her story. She was born into this. How did you come to be involved?” I asked. I hoped Dennis would assume I was enquiring as a friend and not a nosey journalist.

***

Dennis relayed his tale to me. Before the Knock, Knock club he lived in the small town of Millefort, outside of the city, towards the coast. It would have been the first piece of civilisation my mother would have met when she carried me in her arms from Westcliff.

Dennis and his father, David, were traders who thrived on their ideal location between the docks where exciting food, clothes and trinkets would arrive from foreign lands and the city of Coldford where there were (at that time) plenty of customers willing to spend on such treasures. They had a happy life – at least that was how Dennis described it. He was married to a beautiful, if not a little neurotic woman named Julianne. She was carrying their first child. Perhaps a boy? Perhaps a girl? They didn’t care as long as the baby was healthy. David Platt had bid Dennis’ mother a heartfelt farewell as she ended a long suffering year of a disease doctors couldn’t combat but whilst David had his son and a grandchild on the way he wasn’t ready to join her yet.

As Dennis set the scene it made me consider that this kind of contentment was only the pleasant, sun drenched calm before the storm. After all, he had went from family man with everything most people would covet to a grotty back alley club in Coldford where murder is all part of the entertainment.

Ships had been arriving with new products and Dennis had been at the Millefort Harbour to greet them. As the deliveries were being carried from the ship to the waiting ‘Platt and Son’ van, one of the helpers allowed the crate he was carrying to slip from his fingers.

“Woah!” Dennis cried as some of the coffee beans it contained spilled out from torn packets. “Be careful with that or I’m going to have to charge you.”

“Sorry sir,” murmured the helper.

“Just get it loaded into the van,” said Dennis, checking his watch to see how much time had been wasted.

As the delivery men busied themselves loading the van, Dennis spied a girl sat at the edge of the pier. She had pulled her heavy fur coat close to her chin. Her white stockinged legs dangled over the edge.

“Are you okay kid?” he asked, approaching her slowly so she wouldn’t be frightened by the sudden appearance of a stranger.

She looked up at him. Her rich attire and the diamonds that sparkled in her ears were unusual for Millefort. It was a laid back town, with earthy people. Her eyes were a pale grey, her lips painted a vibrant red. “I need to get to Westcliff,” she said.

“They don’t have any passenger ships here,” instructed Dennis. The girl looked solemnly out across the water. “What is your name?”

“Tabitha.”

“Where have you come from?”

“Filton. I’m looking for my aunt. She’s in Westcliff.”

Dennis, looking back at the delivery men who were closing the van up, said to Tabitha, “A boat ain’t going to magically appear kid.” He reached out and helped her onto her feet again which were clad in crushed velvet shoes. “Why don’t you come home with me and we can get you sorted.”

Dennis had expected Tabitha to resist climbing into a large blue van with a stranger but she thought nothing of it. She rode in silence beside him. Dennis had many questions that he wanted to ask her but he followed her lead and said nothing.

When they reached his home he finally said, “Don’t worry, I’ll smooth it over with my wife.”

The van crawled in front of a whitewashed bungalow. It was early evening by then. Darkness was smothering the sun underneath a pillow of stars. The lights in the houses were beginning to illuminate the narrow street. A large window at the front bathed the dark, tidy lawn in an azure glow.

A woman came charging into the light of the headlamps. She was dressed in a thin nightdress and was barefoot despite the chill in the air. She was heavily pregnant.

Dennis grunted, brought the van to a complete stop and rolled down the window. He leaned out and called to her, “Julie, what the Hell are you doing? I could have ran you over!” He climbed out and Tabitha followed.

“What kept you?” asked Julianne. “I was worried.” She linked her arm through her husband’s and stared at the stray girl he had brought home.

“You know its a long drive. I found this girl. She was lost.”

Julianne reached her free hand out and took Tabitha’s in hers. “Who are you?”

“My name is Tabitha. I need to get to my aunt in Westcliff.”

“This is the wrong direction,” said Julianne coldly. “You won’t get far tonight. You had better come inside.”

“Tabitha’s grey eyes clouded. She pulled her coat closer to her frame. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” she said as she followed the couple heading towards their front door.

“My husband has brought his fair share of strange women into my home.” Julianne pulled her arm away from Dennis and entered the house first.

Despite Julianne’s obvious discomfort at having her there, Tabitha remained with them. The days rolled on and the weeks went by. Julianne avoided her where possible. Dennis managed to decipher that her parents whom she lived with in Filton had died in a terrible accident. The details of this accident were too painful to discuss. The only living relative she had left was an aunt (her grandfather’s sister) who lived on the island of Westcliff. The only worldly possessions she had were the expensive clothes she had been wearing when Dennis met her and a bankers note that would allow her to draw on her parent’s accounts which were extensive. She was hesitant to do this. She settled into the home of the Platt family and despite her eagerness to get to Westcliff on the first day, she never mentioned it again.

“What age do you suppose she is?” Julianne asked as she and Dennis watched the stranger from a distance. The stranger they had invited into their home for a night was now sat comfortably in their sofa – blue leather with delicately carved wooden trimmings that was Julianne’s pride and joy – watching their television.

“I don’t know. Sixteen, seventeen maybe?”

Julianne groaned and rubbed her swollen womb. “She said she was going to board a boat to Westcliff weeks ago. Why is she still here? The baby will be here any day now and we will need the room back.”

Tabitha’s explanation of her life in Filton was sketchy. She wouldn’t draw on her parent’s accounts to pay for her upkeep or find somewhere more luxurious to live. However, she did what she could to earn her board by helping David – who lived next door to his son – with the accounts for their trading. She did this with the meticulous detail of an expert. She didn’t pay for her food but she fetched whatever they needed and cooked it so that Julianne didn’t have to. She told them that she had written to her aunt, inviting her to the mainland to help her sort her parent’s affairs and was awaiting a response.

More time went by. A little baby boy with Dennis’ dark eyes and the soft wisps of Julianne’s auburn hair was brought into the family. He was named Milo and even Julianne had to admit that Tabitha’s help in dealing with the infant was invaluable. Tabitha held Milo in her arms a lot. She sang to him, she danced around the room with him. Whenever he saw her face he would break into an adoring, gummy grin. Times were bliss for the Platt family. Life was complete.

“That baby of yours must be keeping you up all night,” quipped one of the Coldford buyers when Dennis struck a deal much lower than he normally would.

“You’ve just caught me in a good mood,” Dennis laughed. “Don’t expect the same next month.

“Don’t let him kid you,” piped up another. “It’s that young girl writing the accounts that’s got him in such high spirits.” Dennis shrugged off the comment and made his way back home.

The house had been surprisingly quiet. Milo wasn’t crying and there was no bickering between Julianne and Tabitha. Tabitha was alone in the den. She was sat on the edge of the sofa wearing her coat. There was a large deep crimson blood stain across the wall as though something or someone had been whacked quite severely with a heavy blunt object.

“What happened? Where’s Julie?” asked Dennis.

“She’s gone,” murmured Tabitha. “She tried to hurt me. She tried to hurt Milo but I stopped her. She took him and now she’s gone.”

Dennis was breathless. His wife and child were gone. A thick blood stain was all that remained. He checked Milo’s room to see with his own eyes if what Tabitha told him was true. His instincts then drew him towards his father.

“David’s gone too,” Tabitha called after him as he darted next door.

Dennis found his father’s door open. His television was blaring loudly as it always did. There was a bullet hole in the back of his head. His eyes were wide. The image of the assailant still printed on the whites.

Tabitha had followed behind him and laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s time I cashed my parents accounts. We can get out of here.”

Dennis shook his head, forcing back the sobs in intense breaths. “She murdered my father. She took my boy.”

“There’s nothing here for either of us. Come with me to Coldford. My aunt has written to me. She will meet us there. She will find Julianne faster than the police ever could.”

Dennis finished his story and I leaned back against the bar. I realised I was still holding the same empty glass I had had at the beginning of his tale.

“So you came to Coldford with Tabitha. You believed that your wife suddenly went crazy, murdered your father and ran off with your boy? Didn’t it occur to you that it was probably Tabitha – you know, the member of this ridiculous group who believe they have licence to murder.”

A smile crawled across Dennis’ lips. “Of course it did. It still does.”

“Then why come here?”

“I believed her when she said she could find my son. She loved Milo. I had no reason to think she would hurt him. Like you, I had nowhere else to go. The Group replaced the family I lost and now I can’t be without them. Whatever happened to Julianne, Milo is still alive. I know it.”

“How long ago was this?”

“About eight … no ten years ago. Milo will be ten now.”

“How can you look her in the eye? She could have been responsible for it all,” I felt the need to remind him.

Dennis emitted a cold peal of laughter. “Did it occur to you that she may have had something to do with the death of your wife too?”

I hadn’t really considered it before but Dennis’ words hit me like a bolt of lightening. “I guess she could have …”

“Like me you will always have that at the back of your mind but you will never leave this club.”

Enjoying the story far?

Subscribe to our newsletter via http://www.vivikawidow.uk and you’ll receive each thrilling episode straight to your inbox before it goes live!

New to the story?

Read Episodes 1 – 5 HERE

The Little List of Doom

I once had a little red notebook. It could rest quite comfortably in the palm of my hand. I was only twelve at the time this all happened but I had pretty small hands. Anyway, this book had been in my family for generations. Lots of the pages had been torn out. It didn’t seem like much when I found it amongst the boxes in the attic. We were clearing out junk and I pulled this little red notebook from the dustiest box, hidden in the darkest corner.

“What’s this?” I asked my mum.

Her eyes widened. She was never one for dramatics but I saw a true look of fear on her face that day mixed with general bewilderment. “That was your gran’s,” she replied.

My gran had lots of weird belongings. I remember some of the strange statues we had found after she moved to sunnier climates. They looked eerily like little people carved out of wax. Some some of them had needles sticking in what I would imagine would be very painful places. Mum melted all of the dolls down and threw them away. My gran was a little weird. I always thought so but as a kid it was really fun to be around. When I stayed over with her she would show me all sorts of old books and tell me ghost stories. I said I could handle it but she told them so vividly that I would wake up in the middle of the night and swear that the ‘goober man’ was watching me. ‘Goober man’ was one of her favourites. He was a dusty old creature who stalked the ancient streets where my gran lived. The fingers and toes of little girls – just like me – were his favourite delicacy. He had long thin strands of hair covering a liver spotted head. His eyes were bulbous and yellow. His fingers were long and he had sharp teeth for gnawing on little bones. He sounded awful. I didn’t want a visit from him. As I said gran loved telling me stories of ‘goober man’. She would see how scared I would be getting and she would laugh. She was a little strange.

“Can I keep this?” I asked my mum of the little red book.

Mum wrinkled her nose. “It’s all rotten and there are hardly any pages left.”

I agreed but I did like the red cover. It gave the notebook some importance. Mum shrugged her shoulders and continued sorting the junk so I slipped the book into the back pocket of my jeans and helped.

That night when everyone – mum, dad and my little brother Ray – had gone to sleep, I kept my night light on and finally had a look at my new red notebook. There was an inscription inside that read:

ENEMY LIST; ENEMIES BEWARE. GONE FOREVER.

This actually made me smile. Even the most patient and tolerant of us would love the chance to make certain people in our lives disappear. One name came to mind – Stacey Willen. She was a nasty girl in my class who had being going out of her way to make my life a misery since we first started school. She would tease me about my hair, my clothes and pretty much everything about me. She had her loyal band of supporters who laughed at her jokes that really weren’t that funny. They were all so eager to gain her approval that they wouldn’t even help me up when she pushed me into the mud. They just stood there like grinning hyenas like it was the best comedy in the world. Just that day I had been sat underneath the tree reading a book. It was a very sunny day. The tree was offering a nice cooling, shady breeze. I was enjoying my reading, blocking out the nonsense screaming of my classmates in the school yard. Stacey must have spotted me from across the yard and felt unable to leave me content. She marched over to me and snatched the book from my hands.

“Give me that back!” I protested.

Stacey sneered. She wasn’t particularly bright. She opened the book in the middle and spat on the pages. Not quite having caused enough havoc she turned to the end and ripped out the last three pages. Seeing I wasn’t reacting she got bored and threw the book back at me, hitting me hard on the arm.

Staring at my gran’s enemy list I took a pen from the night stand. It had thick black ink. She would have to be the first name. STACEY WILLEN. Content with myself I turned off my light and fell into a comfortable nights sleep.

The next morning when I arrived at school I had half expected Stacey to be there to greet me, somehow knowing I had added her to my enemy list. To my surprise her usual band of supporters were gathered but there was no Stacey.

“She has just disappeared. Her parents say she was in her room last night and when they went to check on her she was gone! They think she has ran away. The police were around and everything,” Stacey’s appointed ‘second in command’ was telling the others.

Stacey disappeared? After I had added her to my enemy list? Surely this was just coincidental. I knew my gran was weird but surely she wasn’t that weird?

Mr Perlman was the caretaker at the school. He was always shouting at the kids and he spat when he spoke. He was a bitter old crank and never had a nice word to say about anyone, even sweet old Mr Faben – the headmaster – who was technically his boss.

He sat at a table in the entranceway making sure the students made their way to class in a timely and organised manner. He wore a battered old hat that was once red but now yellowy and in desperate need of a wash.

“Move it along Wilson!” he spat at me even though he could clearly see I was moving to my first class. I turned and looked at him to verify exactly what it was he was shouting at me for. I had after all just crossed the threshold into the school. He pointed savagely at his brown forehead. “Are you a moron!? I said move along!”

I shook my head and grunted. I took out my red notebook and smiled to myself as I wrote down, in heavy letters, MR PERLMAN. It did make me feel much better. I walked along to my class. If I had turned at that moment I would have noticed the seat where Mr Perlman had been in just moments before, empty except for the battered old hat.

That afternoon over lunch I saw Mr Faben wandering around the hall looking for Mr Perlman. I didn’t think anything of it. I just saw it that the student body was getting a break for an afternoon both from Stacey Willen and Mr Perlman so it was win win. I overheard the girls at the table next to me discussing the maths test we were to have later that afternoon. They were in my class, they knew me well by name but never invited me to join them. It seems they thought I was a little odd. They hadn’t met my gran. As the girls left the lunch room, offering me but a fleeting glance I began to think of how under prepared I was for the maths test. I and many twelve year olds would much rather be doing anything else than sitting a maths test so for kicks I took out my red notebook once again. This time I added MISS PARSON AND THE S32 MATHS CLASS to the enemy list.

Eventually the bell rang and I swung my bag over my shoulder and took a deep breath. I arrived at my maths class and it was empty. Everyone had gone, even Miss Parson.

Whilst the school was in turmoil trying to find out where an entire class of students, a rookie maths teacher and the caretaker would have disappeared to I slipped my red enemy list back into my pocket. I was going to have to learn to use it wisely…

Enjoy this?

Vivika Widow’s Myths and Tales is AVAILABLE NOW

Click here to read.

Now a series from Leo St Paul. Click here to view.

The Silhouette

There were no features on the image, just the outline of a woman’s frame. Black and white except for the prominent red rose that the silhouette held in her hand. Helena had only been a maid at Castle Kroestov, in the snow covered land of Navaria, but a few weeks so she was still acquainting herself with the many paintings that graced the walls.

The silhouette didn’t look towards the artist. Instead she offered a delicate profile with a soft outlined nose, long elegant neck and slender, statuesque frame. She reminded Helena of the old queen – Francesca. Having been dead many years Helena had only seen her in pictures but the resemblance to the silhouette was incredible. A title beneath the mahogany frame read ‘Dust and Devotion’. No artist had laid claim to the work.

Helena smiled. Never before coming to Castle Kroestov had she been surrounded by so much beauty. She reached out and graced the intricate pattern carved in the frame before wiping it with her dusting cloth. She then drew her finger softly over the head of the silhouette and down the face. She felt a sharp pain fire from her fingertips to her head. In her mind’s eye she saw Francesca. She was on horseback, her long flowing black hair caught in the wind. Her blue eyes raged with anger but her lips held a serene smile. The scene appeared to be set on the outskirts of a village, at the very edge of the forest. Francesca was surrounded by adoring villagers but a man was before her didn’t share their admiration. A thick rope was tied around his neck. His hands and feet were bound and the ropes were harnessed to three horses. He said nothing but his eyes were leaking emotion.

“Declare your dedication to me,” spat Francesca. “Or be returned to the dust of the earth.”

The prisoner shook his head. “I will never devote myself to a witch.”

Francesca removed herself from her horse. She pushed into the crowd and drew a little girl from amongst them.

“Eleanor!?” gasped the prisoner, recognising his daughter.

Francesca gripped the girl close  to her side with one hand and wove the long fingers of the other through the girl’s fair hair. “Daddy thinks he is above the rules I have set forth,” said Francesca to the girl. “Isn’t that rather naughty?”

Eleanor nodded her head in agreement.

“Do you think I should have him torn apart for such defiance?”

This time the child did not answer. She stared at her father with a torrent stupefaction only a child unschooled in the cruelty of the world could muster. “I don’t want my daddy to die!” she sobbed.

Francesca tightened the fingers that were in the girls hair and pulled at it. “What did you say?” she asked with a severe snarl.

The little girl began to cry. She tried to pull away but Francesca’s grip was too strong. The tearing at her hair was a numb pain compared to seeing her father captive.

“You will watch the horses tear your father to pieces and then you will be next.” Francesca looked behind to her people. “Pistol!” she barked the order. One stepped forward without hesitation, placing a pistol in the hand Francesca had freed. She thrust it towards the little girl. “Horses don’t like the sound of gunshot. It frightens them and when they are frightened they run with all their might. You can pull the trigger.”

Annabelle, Francesca’s closest friend, had been standing close by watching the scene unfold. Becoming frustrated she snatched the gun and fired it into the air. The horses that the prisoner was tied to screamed. The reared and dashed in opposite directions. The prisoner was dragged across the rocky floor briefly before his body was torn. Francesca’s supporters held her horse as tightly as they could so he wouldn’t run too.

Francesca threw the little girl to the ground, sobbing in horror at what she had just bore witness to. Francesca’s lip curled as she stared at Annabelle. Annabelle could feel her breath struggle to gather in her chest. “How dare you interfere like that,” said Francesca. “I was amusing myself.”

Annabelle could feel a tight grip from inside her chest. Her heart pushed against it as best it could. “That man was never going to change his mind. We were wasting a beautiful morning,” she gasped.

Francesca’s nose crinkled. The pain in Annabelle’s chest seared. Blood began to pool in her mouth. “One way or another he was ending this day a corpse. You still have the daughter. She is ready for a lifetime of torment,” Annabelle managed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Francesca looked at the Eleanor still sobbing on the ground. She laughed and released her hold on Annabelle. The little girl was dragged onto her feet by an invisible force that Francesca summoned. Her face was awash with tears. “I’m going to take you to a new home,” Francesca warned the little girl with venom. “Perhaps I will eat you slowly. One little bit of flesh at a time.” She pushed Eleanor back into the arms of Annabelle. “Bring her with us,” ordered Francesca. She turned her gaze to Annabelle and spat, “I’m not done with you yet!” She climbed back onto her horse. Her followers lingered behind as they made their way back home.

Annabelle pushed Eleanor in front of her. “Move!” she barked.

Helena stumbled back from the silhouette. She couldn’t decipher whether the scene she had relayed in her mind had been real or if the gloomy castle was causing her to imagine things. She stumbled from the dream. She looked at the silhouette again. It was serene, silent. Black and white except the blood red rose. The silhouette had quite a tale to tell…

‘Dust and Devotion’ is the short story prequel to ‘Red Snow’

Click here to read Dust and Devotion now!