DAME DEMISE by STUART NEILD
Cover by WJ Davies
Dame Demise©2010 Stuart Neild
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or undead, is entirely coincidental. The moral right of the authors has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988
*******
The curtains twitched and hardly audible voices whispered behind the flimsy veil.
“I can’t see,” Joan hissed.
“They’ll be able to see you,” Joe’s scolding voice was a little louder than his wife’s.
“What do you mean?” she looked quizzical.
Joe sighed. “I mean you’re twitching the curtains that much.”
“What can you see?” she pecked at him.
“Nothing,” was the sharp reply, “your heads in the way.”
“I’ll get my glasses,” Joan huffed.
“You do that,” said Joe while taking up Joan’s position at the window, in what was a straight swap from one old age pensioner to another.
“Now who’s twitching the curtains?” she rolled her eyes up.
He sniffed, “and get my glasses while you’re at it.”
*******
Directly opposite Joe and Joan’s semi detached, Trisha stood at the window.
Lance was playing on the Playstation, concentrating more on slaying aliens, than the never ending drone of his ever loving wife.
“Someone’s moving in across the road,” Trisha spoke.
“You don’t say,” Lance replied somewhat sarcastically.
“I hope they’re not going to leave that big van there,” Trisha’s brow furrowed. “My Mum won’t be able to park her car.”
“And that would be a tragedy wouldn’t it?” Lance said even more sarcastically.
“Still, if they’re quick, they might be done by the time Mum gets here.”
“It’s nearly two,” Lance said.
“So?” Trisha replied.
“Your Mum’s always here for two, rain, sleet or frigging hell fire,” he shook his head. “Nothing will stop her. And don’t I know it.”
“What was that?” Trisha snapped back at last.
The doorbell rang out.
“The doorbell, it’ll be your Mother. As punctual as ever.”
Trisha made a quick exit, before an even quicker re-entrance with her Mother, just as Lance predicted.
“I’ve had to park my car at the top end of the road and walk down here,” said Trisha’s Mum, wasting no time in pulling off her coat.
“You shouldn’t have bothered,” Lance said.
“What was that”? Mother was as quick on the counter attack as ever.
“Lance is just worried about your bad knees,” Trisha tried to smooth things over.
“It’s not just your knees that are bad,” Lance whispered under his breath, “you’re pretty rotten all over.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen Mum,” Trisha grabbed her Mum’s arm.
“Yes Trisha, lets,” Mother shot Lance a grim glance, “we wouldn’t want to disturb Lance’s playtime,” she slammed the door behind her and Trisha, leaving Lance alone.
“Why not,” Lance shrugged his shoulders, “you disturb everything else”.
*******
Bonnie and Clive sat passing in and out of consciousness, in the hovel they called a living room, blasting out loud music. Empty cans and bottles decorated the room, rattling with the vibration of the music. The knock on the door did its best to fight its way through the din, but it was obviously losing the battle. It was not until more force was invested in the knocking that it managed to compete with the music.
“What was that?” Bonnie looked perplexed.
“What was what?” Clive drifted back into reality for a second or two.
“That loud noise,” Bonnie said.
They sat and listened as the music continued at full blast.
“I can’t hear anything,” Clive finally spoke.
“I don’t think I can now,” Bonnie agreed with him, “I must have imagined it.”
The knocking returned, louder than ever, so loud in fact that the sound of breaking wood now accompanied it.
Bonnie and Clive stared at one another before jumping up and heading to the hallway, a hallway that was even more of a wreck than the living room, full of putrid rubbish and bin bags.
For a second they fussed over a small square of wood they found on the floor.
“Someone’s knocked the wood out,” Bonnie said, horrified.
“It took me ages to fix that broken window,” Clive looked heartbroken. “I even used nails.”
“Never mind you’re handy work Clive, look,” Bonnie pointed to a hole in the door where the wood had been.
“Who is it?” Bonnie said confused. “Who’s out there?”
“It’s some old biddy,” Clive strained his eyes. “What’s some old woman doing punching a hole into our door?”
“What does she want?” asked Bonnie not answering any of Clive’s questions, but asking her own. “It could be some kind of trap.”
“What do you want?” Clive kept his distance, but shouted through the hole.
“I want you to turn the music down,” the little old lady peeked through the hole.
Bonnie turned to Clive. “She wants us to turn the music down.”
“She might just go away,” Clive replied.
“She’s looking at me,” panic was setting into Bonnie. “I don’t like the way she’s looking at me.”
“Turn the music down now, the old woman shouted with enough steel in her voice to overcome the music.
“She’s still there,” Bonnie said still standing transfixed as Clive returned from turning off the music.
“I know, I can see,” replied Clive as he joined Bonnie by her side. They both recoiled back in horror, as the old woman punched another hole in the door.
Yet another punch and the patched up door splintered enough to grant her entry.
She stepped gingerly into the hallway, her hand outstretched. “The door was open. I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in,” her smile betrayed the selection of bad teeth which resided in her mouth. “I’m you’re new neighbour. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
*******
“Mr Cox, Mr Cox,” Mary hammered on the door, “can you hear me Mr Cox?”
“Is something wrong?” the old woman stepped out from Bonnie and Clive’s house and crossed the cul-de-sac, to where Mary was knocking, on old man Cox’s front door.
“Everything is under control,” said Mary, looking back at the old woman with a sneer of distaste. She hammered on the door again.
“I doesn’t seem to be,” the old woman said quietly, with the hint of sickly sweet smile. “Can I help?”
“I don’t think so,” Mary fixed an icy gaze on her and carried on knocking.
“I’m Mrs Smith,” the old woman thrust her hand towards Mary.
Mary reluctantly took the handshake.
“It’s quite a common name I know, Smith,” the old woman went on,” but it serves its purpose I suppose. Strange things aren’t they, names?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” Mary looked confused.
“Mr Cox, Mr Cox,” the old woman shouted, suddenly taking Mary’s position of knocking and shouting at the door, while Mary looked on, still bewildered. “It is an elderly neighbour I take it,” the old woman temporarily turned back to Mary, before knocking and shouting some more.