|
 |
||||||||||
|
|||||||||||
|
|||||||||||
Flower in the Hand Yard
by
M Wilkinson
I’d walked the length of the street a hundred times and never once noticed the opening, or the name plaque in the old stone archway that read Flower in the Hand Yard.
It was a beautiful day and a shaft of sunlight polished a path through the blackened arch. Many times since, I’ve wished I had walked on, but curiosity overcame me and I stepped though.
I found myself in a small square. On each side, the buildings stood four floors high. Two white-framed windows and a pair of French doors leading onto a small wrought iron balcony marked each separate apartment. Window boxes adorned the frontage, flowers spilled over the edges in a tangled riot of colour and perfume.
The cobbled courtyard was empty, except for a curved bench that wound a dark circle around a miniature fountain. In its centre, a statue of a woodland nymph held a cupped flower above her head. Water flowed in a soft trickle down her body and gave her grey- green metal contours a life-like sheen.
A slick of slimy yellow-green fungi coloured the courtyard cobbles and also covered most of the bench. I ran my fingers along a small patch of wood that received some sunlight and felt the dust of dry unvarnished slats.
The smell of damp vegetation and flowers hung heavy in the air. There was something about the cool tranquillity of the courtyard that made me want to linger. I settled on the dry patch of bench, lit a cigarette and scanned the blank eyed windows. On the upper floors a few shutters were drawn against a slither of sun that edged over the rooftop. Silence, broken only by the soft gurgle of the fountain, pressed down like a comforter. My eyelids felt heavy and reluctantly I let them droop.
I must have slept for quite a while, for when I opened them again, the patch of sky above my head was deep blue and a few stars shone faintly in the half-light. I jerked upright, feeling a fool, and scanned the windows to see if anyone had witnessed my behaviour. Although there were no lights to indicate the flats were occupied I had the feeling there were eyes watching me. Watching from shadowed recesses in the rooms behind the blank glass. I straightened my long frame from its unaccustomed position of sleeping upright and moved stiffly out through the archway.
*
In the kitchen of our modest West London house, my wife Jane put the finishing touches to the evening meal. She raised a cheek for my customary kiss. Her pale hair, a contrast to my own dark locks, smelled of scented shampoo.
‘You’re late tonight. Had a good day?’ she said, her fingers busy arranging a bed of lettuce in the base of a salad bowl.
My intention of telling her about the eerie Square froze in my throat. I found I didn’t want to share the experience. I wasn’t sure why, but it felt as if I would be giving the keys to my house to a stranger. ‘The usual - the kids ok?’ I replied, mentally shaking my head at being a fool. Why should I wish to hide such a casual occurrence?
‘Yes, they’ve eaten and they’re both upstairs doing their homework.’
‘Just us, then?’ I said moving to the cutlery drawer.
*
It was several months before business took me once again into the vicinity of Flower in the Hand Yard. The autumn air had a slight chill, hinting at coming winter and I pulled my jacket collar close about my neck. I’d concluded my business, selling first edition books to the bookstore. I started for home with a light step as sales had gone well. I had almost forgotten the archway and the courtyard. It was the smell of flowers that made me turn my head. Although I knew what was on the other side of the passage I felt an overwhelming compunction to take another look. I wandered toward the fountain, my eyes taking in the surroundings noting nothing had changed. I was about to turn and leave when a movement in one of the upper windows caught my attention. I paused and stared upwards. A young woman was framed in the window, dressed in some sort of filmy white gown. She seemed oblivious to my presence as she brushed her long dark hair with smooth rhythmic strokes. The elegance of her movements held me to the spot and something unfathomable stirred deep in my consciousness. I watched spellbound as she tied her hair back from her face with scarlet ribbon, winding it around neatly until it resembled the decorated tail of a show horse. I was so lost in the sight I wasn’t ready for the swift turn she made towards the window and the dark eyes that held my own. She smiled and I saw a flash of small, snowy teeth against the perfect bow of her lips.
Throughout the Autumn I organised my life so that I could spend at least some part of the week in Flower in the Hand Yard. I sat on the round bench gazing up at her window in hope of seeing her. Sometimes she came to the window and rewarded me with a smile. On these occasions my heart rose in my throat and my pulse raced.
The first snows of winter had fallen, covering the streets in icing sugar whiteness. I walked through the arch and to my surprise the courtyard had not changed, no sign of snow and the flowers were still in full blossom on the balconies.
This time she was at the window as if she had been waiting for me. She smiled and beckoned, pointing to a small door in the side of the building. With my head spinning with disbelief, I followed her pointing finger, passed though the door and found myself at the bottom of a flight of stone steps. Shadow in the unlit hallway enveloped the upper floor and yet somehow I knew she was standing there, waiting. I felt a wave of anxiety and a sick sinking in my stomach. What was I going to say to her? Hello, my name’s Chandler James, I’m a married man with two children and I want your body. Is that what I really wanted, her body? Yes, I wanted her, but there was something more and I couldn’t put a name to it. Yet I felt it, violence, a wolf about to spring on its prey, savouring the moment of tearing flesh and the metallic taste of blood.
She moved forward. ‘Come in, Chandler,’ she said and took my hand. I didn’t question that she knew my name.
One candle that threw flickering shadows in a far corner lit the room. The furniture was sparse. A dressing table and stool, situated close to the window and a huge bed dominated the central area.
‘I’m…’ I began. She put her fingers to her lips in a command for silence and pulled me towards the bed. I felt her cool, smooth fingers against my skin as she helped remove my clothes. No smell of shampoo or shop bought perfume emanated from her closeness and yet a perfumed muskiness, like no other I had encountered, bathed her body.
Desire took over and my blood ran hot. There was no thought of foreplay as I flipped her to her stomach and entered her from behind. I took her in frenzy, bit into her neck and felt skin split beneath my teeth. Blood, salty yet sweet, trickled into my mouth and down my chin, the taste only served to heighten my passion. My body was slick with sweat as I lunged into her, with no words but the grunts of a rutting animal.
Then it was over and I collapsed at her side, my desire spent. I looked up at the flickering shadows on the ceiling and shame swamped me. I must have hurt her, but she had given no sign. I needed to apologise. My throat was tight with tears of remorse and I wasn’t sure if I could speak. I turned to her and shock kicked me in the stomach and rendering me speechless. She smiled. Long, grey teeth, the incisors pointed, rested against her bottom lip. Coarse spiked hair sprouted from flaccid skin, gathering in the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ I screamed and rolled out of bed, landing on all fours. ‘Who are you?’
Her breasts hung, leathery and thin against her thighs as she crouched on the bed. ‘I’m your lover – your mate - forever.’ Her eyes glowed yellow and her breath spoke of inner decay.
I dry retched and reached blindly for my discarded clothes. ‘Oh God help me!’ I moaned. I pulled on my clothes and scrambled towards the door.
‘I’ll see you again, Chandler. Very soon,’ she whispered. Her voice gritty, as if from long disuse and rusted in her throat.
‘No, never again,’ I babbled as I fumbled in the dark for the handle.
She gave a low laugh. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll see you again. You’re one of us. Didn’t you know?’
At that moment I had no idea what she meant - but now, as I make my way to Flower in the Hand Yard, animal instinct pulling me inextricably into ungoverned depths of depravity, I understand.
TO COMMENT ON THIS STORY CLICK HERE
© Wilkinson, 2007Born and educated in Belfast, Maureen Wilkinson left school at fourteen. She moved to London, where she lived until she married and relocated to Norfolk in the United Kingdom. Her interests range from travel abroad and antiques to walking her German shepherd.
Her stories have been published in Flashme, Champagne Shivers, Skive, Twisted Tongue, Longstoryshort, Defenestration, Chick Flicks, Write Side Up, Litmocracy and Cyberwit [due for publication December] She has been put forward by Winged Halo, for the readers vote for best story, waiting decision].
Anything concerning writing, email her at littlewhitewolf@gmail.com.