Poor Thing
Two months out of the young offender’s institution and Mark was rather enjoying his stint as a door-to-door salesman selling tea towels, dishcloths, clothes brushes and all those other little things that no one needs but that they’ll buy if you smile humbly and look as if you’re trying to better yourself.
The job was a good money-spinner actually. Not the selling of the cheap household rubbish of course, no one could ever make any money from that. Mark made quite a bit more by taking the odd item from someone’s living room when they went to make a cup of tea, or cash from their purse if they were foolish enough to leave it out. It was only ever women that he stole from – men tended not to be home during the day and those that were in would invariably tell him thanks but no thanks. Apart from one frisky old goat that took a shine to him he had only ever sold to or stolen from women.
He didn’t feel guilty about stealing, well, not much anyway. As he saw it he had very little and these people always had plenty – a nice house on a tree-lined road, satellite TV, leather sofa, ornaments galore etc – they weren’t going to notice a few quid missing or a Capodimonte shepherdess or some other piece of rubbish. Rubbish that often fetched a fair price at the Cash Converters in Peckham.
On this particular Tuesday morning Mark was meandering down a street in suburban South London, a road lined with semi-detached houses that would once have been modest, but with the inexorable rise in house prices over the years were now inhabited by either the elderly (who had lived there for decades) or young bankers and their families. It was a fairly pleasant day, a bit cloudy perhaps but dry, with occasional flashes of sun peeking through the gaps in the clouds, and the temperature was such that there was no need for Mark to wear a coat, just a smart shirt and a waistcoat he’d picked up from Oxfam which he thought made him look harmless, almost studious. At 5’10” tall, with pale skin and straight, dark brown hair combed to one side, in his relatively carefully chosen clothes Mark could pass for a young librarian. His glasses were the icing on the cake – not actually worn for the literary effect that they naturally had, he really needed them to see clearly.
His oversized navy blue holdall was crammed with cloths and cleaning materials, dusters and those small rollers for removing fluff and lint from clothes. He’d so far knocked on four doors, three of which had not been answered and the fourth had been opened by a miserable old bastard who just said “not today thank you” and slammed the heavy door in his face before he could even say why he was there. His capacious sports bag probably gave the game away.
The next house to try was another semi, mock Tudor with black timber beams criss-crossing its plasterwork. It was rather unkempt compared with its neighbours. The box hedges surrounding the front and side of the house were nearly six feet high and clearly hadn’t seen the sharp end of a hedge trimmer in a while. There was a wooden gate set into the hedge and a pathway of faded black tarmac led to the very solid-looking front door, to the left of a large bay window. The lawn, such as it was, was overgrown and dotted through with dandelions and moss. Clearly whoever lived here wasn’t concerned with outward appearances and would very likely benefit from some of the cleaning materials Mark was pushing. He put his bag down on the path, walked up the three cracked, tiled steps and knocked on the door – there wasn’t a doorbell or a knocker that he could see so he rapped sharply with his knuckles three times. No answer. He waited a few seconds and knocked again. Nothing. He thought he detected a movement in the net curtains at the side of the bay window, but there was no other indication of life inside the house. Probably another paranoid old biddy peering at him from behind the lace. Oh well, onto the next house then.
Just as he turned to leave the door suddenly flung open inwards and standing in front of Mark was the sweetest little old lady he’d ever seen. She was tiny, perhaps 5’2” tall, in her early to mid seventies, with white curly hair that was set just like the Queen’s, and like hers it was unlikely to sway in even the strongest of gales. She was wearing a smart, plain white blouse with a frilly detail around the collar, a good quality dark green tweed skirt to just below the knee, thick cream tights and dusky pink velour house slippers – the sort that have been sold in Marks and Spencer for at least the last thirty years and which your own grandmother probably wears. To complete this image of geriatric perfection she was wearing a woollen cardigan with a diamond-shaped Argyle pattern and a floral apron – the old-fashioned housewife type that fastens around the waist and offers almost no protection whatsoever when cooking.
“Hello dear!”
“Good Morning! My name is Mark and I’m selling household goods for charity – here’s my ID...” He handed her a laminated card with his photo and credentials on, he looked particularly nice in the picture, as was his intention.
The old lady didn’t so much as glance at Mark’s proffered card and simply smiled at him warmly.
“You’d better come in then dear – why don’t I put the kettle on and you can show me what you have...”
Mark was rather taken aback. He’d never been invited into someone’s home quite so quickly. Normally he had to show the householder a few of his wares on the doorstep, which gave him a chance to talk a bit about his (fictitious) situation – how he lived with his widowed mother and three younger siblings, how they were all at school and he’d been unable to find a permanent job, but rather than go on the dole like other young people he was selling goods door to door to try to earn an honest living. It usually took about five minutes of his very carefully concocted sob story and a sweet smile to get invited in for tea, so this was a very pleasant surprise for him – so easy! It was going to be like taking candy from a baby, as the Americans might say!
He returned the lady’s warm smile with one of his own, picked up his bag and crossed the threshold. The hall was very plain, with a beige carpet covered by a long, thin, floral runner, the stairs leading to the first floor landing were directly in front of the door and the living room was to the right. The house smelled faintly of old dog. He recognised the scent from his childhood – his grandmother had had an ancient corgi that was allowed to go wherever it liked in her house and the smell of old dog hair and urine used to make him feel sick. People with dogs will tell you that they don’t smell, but that’s because you don’t notice it when you live with it day in day out. He thought it was a disgusting smell. There was no excuse for it these days, what with Febreze and all.
“I’m Clemence. Please – set your bag down in the living room and put your feet up for a few minutes – my! That’s the largest bag I’ve ever seen!” the old lady chuckled warmly.
“Nice to meet you Clemence, it’s very kind of you to invite me in. I’ve been on my feet all morning with this bag and a nice sit down and a cup of tea is exactly what I need!” He thought he perhaps sounded almost comically prim and old-fashioned, but he couldn’t help tailoring his speech to suit or rather match his victims. He made a mental note to work on this.
Mark sat down to one side of the large cream three-seat sofa. He got a bit of a fright when he noticed that there was another lady sitting quietly in a wing armchair in the corner of the room, silently staring at him with just a curl of a smile showing on her mouth. She looked very similar to Clemence. The same white hair, similar blouse, skirt and slippers. The only substantial difference was that she wore thick spectacles, almost comically thick. They magnified her eyes so much that even from the other side of the room Mark could see that they were an intense, bright, cold blue. An involuntary shiver went through him and Clemence clearly noted his expression.
“Oh, that’s Mathilde. I hope she didn’t startle you. She doesn’t speak, poor thing. Hasn’t done for years. Anyway, I’ll go and put the kettle on and you can get some of your things out to show me. I’m sure I need a few bits. We can have a chat and a biscuit. It’s a treat for me to have some company. Mathilde’s all very well but I do miss real conversation, don’t I Mathilde?”
Clemence smiled warmly at Mark and then
slipped out of the room to make the tea. Mathilde continued to watch Mark. Her expression remained the same – somehow vacant despite the intensity of her eyes. Not the benign vacancy of the retarded, something about her seemed almost sinister – was she happy to see him? Ridiculous, she’s just an old lady! He shook off his silly thoughts and smiled one of his most practised sweet smiles. He wondered if they were friends or sisters. Perhaps they were lesbians. He laughed inwardly at this thought. As if.
“Hello Mathilde, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Mark. Nice day out isn’t it? I expect you’ll be out enjoying the sunshine later. Good to make the most of it while it’s not raining eh?” he tried and failed not to be patronising. Why do the English only ever talk about the weather when they need to fill the silence? Really, why? Talking about the weather only makes it obvious to the other party that you’re feeling awkward.
Mark was indeed quite nervous, trying to make small talk with this creepy, mute pensioner. Not only was it a weird situation but he wasn’t going to be able to pocket anything with silent Mathilde staring at him. He was feeling very self-conscious and his skin was starting to crawl the longer she gazed at him. He hoped that the kettle would boil quickly. The old lady continued to stare at him, occasionally blinking to demonstrate that she was a real person and not a waxwork.
A few minutes later Clemence returned to the room carrying a tray with a teapot, proper cups and saucers, a dainty milk jug, and a plate with an assortment of biscuits, including retro pink wafers which Mark hadn’t seen for years. Do they really still make these? He thought.
“Shall we take a look at your wares while the tea brews?” she asked chirpily.
As Mark unpacked his bag Clemence chatted to him brightly.
“It’s so nice to have some company, really it is! Since our Max died it’s just not been the same.”
“Max?”
“Our German Shepherd. He passed away several months ago, poor thing. Such a handsome dog, he was like a son to us. Dogs are so wonderful, much better than cats don’t you think? You can trust someone that likes dogs. Do you like dogs?”
“Yes I love them – I grew up with a golden retriever called Henry.” That was a blatant lie, like most utterances from Mark’s mouth.
“What a lovely name! I knew you’d be a dog person the moment I set eyes on you. Let me show you a picture of Max!”
Clemence got up and went to a plain, 1970s-style sideboard to the left of Mathilde and picked up a silver photo frame sitting atop it. She brought it to Mark and handed it to him with a smile. He took it from her and stared at the picture of the dog. This couldn’t be their dog. She’d said that he died a few months ago – this picture was clearly from sometime in the seventies or maybe the early eighties at a push!
”When did Max pass away did you say?”
“It was five months ago. We were both absolutely distraught, poor Mathilde was inconsolable. She was so fond of him. You don’t need language to communicate with a dog, you see, well, you know that of course having grown up with one. It’s like losing a child when you lose a dog. Max was like a son to us, really he was. Neither of us ever had children but I can’t imagine that losing a child could ever be more painful than what we’ve been through with Max.”
Mark thought that they must be going senile. The picture of Max was clearly decades old, although the house did smell of old dog, which would indicate that there had been one living here fairly recently. Odd.
“That must have been awful. I totally understand, I always saw our Henry as my brother... Would you mind if I use your loo?” he asked, changing the subject and thinking it would be nice to get out of the room for a couple of minutes. He might also be able to pinch something if he could get out of their sight briefly.
“Of course! It’s upstairs – go up and turn left on the landing. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, I’ll only be a minute.”
As Mark got up he saw that Mathilde was still staring at him. Her smile seemed even more sly and he felt slightly unnerved. Silly of him. She was just a senile old lady! Despite his self-reassurances he couldn’t shake his feeling of unease, there was definitely something strange about these ladies.
He slowly mounted the stairs and could hear Clemence chatting away to Mathilde, with of course no response from her friend. He reached the landing and turned left. Next to the bathroom was a bedroom and he peeked inside. Weird. There were a couple of pairs of men’s trainers sitting neatly against the wall. Funny thing for a pair of spinsters to have. One of them was Hi-tech – Mark recognised the logo on the side. He had a pair of Hi-tech trainers when he was a kid. No one had them anymore – did the company even exist still? Very strange indeed. He saw a good-sized jewellery box on the bedside table – result!
Treading very carefully so as not to be heard from downstairs Mark entered the room and quietly crept over to the side of the bed. He opened the box and was immediately confused. It contained half a dozen men’s watches. A modern Casio G-shock, a couple of ordinary looking inexpensive gold-plated ones with leather straps – the sort that you can get at any jeweller or even Argos. No brand names that he’d heard of. There was also an old calculator watch – the kind that has a digital screen and a little numerical keyboard. Some companies were making them again for the retro look, but this one wasn’t a modern one. It was clearly an original from the eighties. Again, really bizarre things for a pair of old women to have, particularly childless ones.
Mark was starting to feel very uneasy. He couldn’t explain why exactly, but things just weren’t adding up, and in a very creepy way that made his skin crawl, as if he was in an episode of Tales of the Unexpected. He thought he’d go downstairs and make his excuses – he didn’t want to spend any more time with these strange ladies, so he went to the loo and flushed to make it sound as if he’d used it, before going back downstairs.
“Ah, there you are, we thought you’d fallen in!” Clemence joked. “I’ve poured the tea – come and sit down.”
Mark sat, thinking he would drink the tea and then “remember” that he had an appointment and make to leave. He picked up the teacup – it was very fancy fine bone china with a floral design on it, probably something like Royal Doulton. It would fetch a good price at Cash Converters and it was a shame that he wouldn’t get a chance to nick it. He took a sip of the tea and smiled nervously at Clemence and then Mathilde. They literally beamed back at him. Mathilde’s smile had reached her eyes for the first time since he’d been there and she seemed surprisingly happy that he was drinking the tea. Just as he was thinking that she was almost unbelievably creepy he started to feel very tired. With the life that he’d led, he was no fool – he knew instantly that he’d been drugged, probably with Rohypnol.
“What the fuck....?” was all he managed to say before he slumped sideways on the sofa.
“What the fuck indeed, you poor thing...” was the last thing he heard as his eyes closed and he began to dream...
Mark dreamt that he was lying on a rug and that his hands and feet were tied together so he couldn’t move. He dreamt that something was digging into his throat – oh the pain! He was being repeatedly jabbed with some sort of large needle, like a knitting needle. It was agony. Warm blood was trickling down his throat and he had to keep painfully swallowing it to prevent himself from choking.
Mark woke up inside what appeared to be a wooden shed. It was cold and smelled of old wood and dogs, or perhaps more accurately of old shit. He was naked and lying on a piece of carpet, and all he could think about was the pain in his throat. His hands were not bound and he reached up to touch his neck – just the slightest pressure sent missiles of pain shooting through him, enough to make him feel faint again. What the hell had they done to him? He tried to get up and realised that there was a chain tied around his ankle. What the fuck? He wanted to shout for help but the pain in his throat was too great for him to even attempt to make a sound. He was so thirsty. There was a bowl of water within his reach and he wa
s able to dip his fingers in to scoop out water and ladle it into his mouth. Swallowing was so painful – he could only manage a couple of mouthfuls of water. He felt oh so tired, and slipped back into unconsciousness...
Mark woke again. He was completely disoriented and couldn’t remember where he was. It started to come back to him slowly and he gingerly felt his neck. It was sore but not agonising. Then he realised that his ankle was no longer chained – however he was wearing a metal collar that was connected by a chain to a metal loop in the concrete floor of the shed. He was scared – what the hell had those psycho bitches done to him? That they would drug him was bad enough, but to collar and chain him naked? This was a whole other level of fucked up. He went to call out for help.
“He.... He.... Huh.... Rrr”
That was when he realised he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t make a sound other than a rasping grunt. It wasn’t just the pain of the effort preventing him – it was as if his voicebox wasn’t vibrating with the movement of air the way it was meant to. Jesus, he thought, I am actually in a nightmare. What the fuck have they done to me?! Then it came to him. Years of watching horror films and time behind bars with real hard cases allowed his mind to make the connections faster than most people would. Oh my god... The awfulness of what was happening began to come clear for him. It started to make sense. The practically antique picture of a German Shepherd, Clemence saying that the “dog” passed away just a few months ago. The men’s trainers and watches in the bedroom upstairs...
There was a small dirty window in the door of the shed and he was able to peer out of it into the garden. The unkempt lawn was surrounded by tall bushes and trees and was not overlooked by any of the adjacent houses. To the rear of the lawn he could see some wooden crosses lined up along a flower bed. Five of them, some clearly older and more weather-worn than others. Each had a little name plate with the same words on, which he could just make out even without his glasses:
“MAX. Beloved Son, always with us”
Mark’s horror was suddenly so great that he could barely breathe. He sank to the floor and stared into space, the shock of his predicament preventing him from seeing anything. The door of the shed suddenly creaked open, and Mathilde stood there beaming at him.
“Oh my darling Max! It’s so wonderful to have you back again! You poor thing, being away for so long, we’ve missed you so much!”
Mathilde stepped towards Mark and stroked his hair fondly. He shrank away from her, sank down to the floor and curled up, his mind incapable of thinking or reacting. Mathilde followed him as he moved, her hand never leaving his head, stroking and caressing him.
Clemence looked out of the kitchen window to the shed, where she could see Mathilde leaning over petting Max. She smiled. These last few months had been very difficult, for Mathilde always retreated within herself whenever Max died. She was relieved that Max had returned fairly quickly this time, once he took two years to come back! That had been just awful – the loneliest two years of her life. Having him back again would make things much more pleasant, being able to have Mathilde to talk to again in the evenings. It was funny how attached she was to that dog, the poor thing.
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