Mistake - Episode Three

1

Of all the adventures Betty had been on and all the dangers she’d put herself in. She never for one moment would have guessed that the last of her days would be spent in a coffin. Really, of all the ways to go out, of all the exciting and dramatic ways to leave this mortal coil and all Betty could come up with was this, lying on her back in darkness and silence.

Betty had seen the films where people were buried alive and thought if she’d been in that situation she’d be screaming and kicking till her last breath, in case just one person metres above could hear her.  Now here she was, but in no way the state she thought she would be in. She was calm, almost relaxed. But then maybe that was just because whatever they had given her was still now slowly wearing off. Maybe the panic was yet to come.

How long had she been in this tiny prison, Betty wondered. Since she was awake and when she was asleep. The passage of time for her was always hard to work out, because for Betty, time moved differently than it did for everyone else. To Betty this was fact. Sometimes even the tiniest of seconds could stretch into hours but just as easily a whole day could pass in a twitch of the eye.

After Betty’s mind drifted from her eventual death, it wafted towards more serious concerns, that of loss. She started to think of all the things she would miss, being dead. First and foremost her mighty cat Digby, poor old Diggers, what would he do without her? And then there was Rose cottage where she had spent more years then she cared to remember, and a temperamental garden that never ceased to surprise her.

Then worse ideas came to Betty’s mind. No more Dan Dare or the Mekon or Stripy. No more rockets to Mars or hover bikes on Mekonta. And worse than all of the above, no more weed. No more sitting in her hut at the bottom of the garden smoking a joint, listening to the mesmerising voice of Bowie.

Even the frequent bossing from Barbara that sounded like a teacher from Peanuts in Betty’s ear, would be rather nice right now. Yes, Betty admitted it she would really miss that bloody Barbara.

Was this panic then, wondered Betty. Was this one of the stages you went through when you were dying, or at least knew you were going to die, what were they again?

One was definitely acceptance but Betty knew she was nowhere near feeling that. Anger was another, but strangely she wasn’t feeling that either. One was on the line of bargaining, well Betty knew there was no bargaining to be done, so that put that one out the picture. Why me? Betty had a simple answer to that one, she had been creeping round a funeral parlour at the dead of night owned by a creepy grinning freak, what did she expect would happen?

So that left what, regret? This was a part of Betty’s mind she didn’t want to go to, but it was all that was there and even in the second the idea came to her, her entire mind suddenly exploded like a dam had burst. Her memories were now drowning in mistakes and unspoken words. In the times she acted when she shouldn’t, and the times she did nothing when all that was needed was the slightest of effort.

Betty felt an ache in her stomach as all her misdoings spread out around her. But it wasn’t just regret for what had happened in the past. It was the aching realisation of the things she’d never do. Betty had for a while now a sort of bucket list, a list of things she hoped she’d manage to do before she left. But how was she going to do any of them now?

How was Betty going to track down the Legendary Bud. It was supposedly the strongest strain of cannabis in the entire world, so rare and secret that only a few knew its real name. How was Betty to solve the problem with Brighton Pier, and find out who the cloaked figure was who always got in their way?

But the most important thing on that bucket list of hers, was at least once before she died, Betty would have really liked to see home again. Even if she couldn’t physically go there she would still have loved to see it one last time.

With those thoughts now passed, had regret left Betty so quickly? She thought it may have taken a lot longer to go through her backlog, but it seemed for someone like her the thought process was quick. Everything else seemed to glaze over like a mixed up tapestry of gibberish. None of it made sense anymore, or indeed mattered.

So is this it then, Betty asked herself, is this acceptance? But I don’t want to die yet, I don’t want to accept. I want to claw my way out this box and rip the head off the smiling git who shoved me in here. I want to live. Betty realised she was no longer just thinking these words, she was screaming them.

“I WANT TO LIVE”

And then the strangest thing happened. Betty got a reply.

“Well, live then.”

2

“So there it is” said Barbara, staring up at dark dilapidated structure.

The ancient building had hopefully seen better days, better than this anyway. Everything about it gave off the feeling of dread and loneliness. All the windows were either bordered up or covered in sheets of yellowed newspaper. The walls were drab and dark. Where there was wood there was rot. Where there were bricks there were cracks as long as your arm and crumbling holes the size of fists.

The garden, not surprisingly, was in a similar state. What remained of the path up to the house had now long ago succumbed to weed and root and grass. The rest of the garden was so overgrown that any flower or plant that tried to give some colour would have been suffocated out of existence before it had even began.

“It’s weird” said Christopher as they crept up through the garden. “This place is like the polar opposite of Rose cottage.”

“That’s hardly weird Chris, Betty and I take pride in our gardening.”

“No, not how it looks. How it feels” Christopher defended his observation. “Rose cottage is filled with memories and wonder. It makes you feel safe and at peace.”

“That’s not how you felt about the cottage the other night?”

“Rose and I have come to an understanding, I get her now.”

“Her?” Barbara chuckled. “Never thought about the cottage like that before, though I suppose I do call the Land Rover her.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“Sorry, you were saying?”

“I was saying, here feels different. It feels like there are no memories at all, like it’s just an empty vessel with a hole that can never be filled.”

“Ah, you see that’s where you are wrong. There are memories here, just not what you bring with you. Something bad happened here, so bad that the memory cannot be replaced or added to. It’s etched into the walls and soaked up by roots in the ground. It eats away at wood and eventually even brick and mortar. It hangs in the air like an invisible oppressive smoke, coating your lungs in its despair. That’s where dread comes from, you know?”

“Really?”

“I have no idea.”

“Barbara.”

They reached the front door of the house, Barbara tried the handle and it turned easily. The door creaked and wobbled open, Christopher doubted it would stay attached after much more use.

“So then” said Barbara. “You ready to step into Jacob’s childhood?”

 

3

“Who said that?” Betty demanded. There was no reply. Had she imagined it, had she gone mad? “Have I gone mad?” She shouted.

“I don’t know, have you?” The voice replied.

“I must be mad if I can hear a voice?”

“Then everyone on the planets mad. As soon as someone speaks, everyone in ear shot suddenly goes loop de loop.”

“I meant voices in my head.”

“Oh I’m definitely not in your head. I know I’m in a cramp environment, but that’s ridiculous.”

“You’re in a coffin same as me?”

“Yes” the voice chuckled. “I’m in the next plot along from you.”

“My goodness how long have you been there?”

“Quite a while it seems, there’s a bit of a smell.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be silly. If I was buried in a plot nearby, how the hell would you hear me so clearly?”

“But you said you were in a coffin?”

“Not exactly.”

“You did, I asked you.”

“No you asked me if I was in a coffin same as you.”

“And you said yes.”

“The question was right but you need to move the words around a little bit.”

Betty thought for a minute, then it came to her.

“You’re in the same coffin as me?”

“We’re finally getting somewhere.”

The next thing Betty felt was dread, clear cold skin twitching dread. Her brain wasn’t ready for this revelation.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I am?” the voice asked excitedly.

“No” Came Betty’s firm reply.

“Come on Betty you must want to know?”

“I do not, no good will come of it.”

“Betty you love mysteries don’t you. Come on just ask, it can’t hurt to ask?”

“It can hurt. As long as I don’t know the answer you can’t hurt me.”

“Can’t hurt me? You must have an idea of who I am then?” The voice chuckled. “If you know then it’s already too late, you might as well come out with it.”

“You’re Death aren’t you?”

“I can hear you perfectly well.”

“I meant you’re the Grim reaper.”

“Sorry, can you speak up, these old ears are not what they used to be.”

“IM DEAD” Betty screamed.

The voice laughed so loud it surely raised all that it had previously taken.

“It’s not funny.”

“You’re wrong you know.”

“I’m not dead?”

“I’m not deaf.” The voice corrected itself. “I mean, I’m not death.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m a maggot.”

“What? Don’t be disgusting.”

“Cheers. And not being funny, but you don’t look so hot yourself these days. What with the feast my families having.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Don’t you know how long you’ve been down here?”

“No. Not really.”

“It’s been Months.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“For god sake Betty haven’t you twigged yet?”

“What?”

“How do I know your name?”

“Well I thought Death would know it.”

“Yeah, but a maggot wouldn’t” the voice laughed. “And since when can a maggot talk?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Don’t you even recognize my voice?”

“Well, it is a bit muffled.”

“For god sake you daft ninny, it’s me, it's Pete.”

“What?”

4

The inside of the building was not much better than the outside, Christopher thought. Anything left by the boys or dead father had obviously been taken in for evidence, or ransacked after the fact. Hardly anything remained, no pictures or tables or lamps. Whatever remained of the carpet was hidden under the litter and unfortunately in places what looked like excrement. Christopher looked away and kept thinking, repeating over and over in his head, made by an animal, made by an animal.

The whole of the ground floor of the house was pretty much the same. If there was anything of interest lost amongst the rubbish that caked the floor, neither Barbara or Christopher dared to touch it. Almost giving up hope that they’d find anything remotely useful, they ascended the staircase to the upper floor.

The first floor of the house painted an entirely different picture then the one they saw downstairs. The short hallway was completely free of litter. There was a bathroom that was almost spotless but useless as nothing in fact worked, Christopher checked.

Apart from the Bathroom there were three other rooms and three closed doors. Each door had a name plate attached to it. 
Christopher was surprised that even those still remained. On one door, in child’s writing was the name Daddy, the next Jacob and finally on the last door was the name Victor.

The door to Daddy’s room was unlocked. Christopher pushed it open and gasped as a putrid smell filled his nostrils, how he hadn’t smelt that even when the door was closed he didn’t know. Though it did answer the question, why was the toilet in the bathroom so clean?

Quickly closing the door, Barbara moved to the next one, Jacob’s room. This too was unlocked, and thankfully offering free. Jacob’s bedroom was almost as empty of furnishings as the rooms downstairs, except for a mattress and duvet at the back of the room. Half used candles in holders were scattered around the mattress and there was a couple of pillows. But apart from that, nothing. Nothing to say it belonged to Jacob now, and nothing to say with any certainty, who it actually did belong to.

“So what do we do now?” asked Christopher, obviously hoping Barbara could just clutch new ideas from the air like straws in a game of Ka-plonk.

“There’s one more room to try” Barbara replied walking up to the last as yet unopened door, Victor’s room.

“Bugger” was all Christopher could hear from the hallway.

“Don’t tell me” Christopher called back. “Locked?”

“Yes.”

“We could break it down?” said Christopher, joining Barbara in the hallway.

“No I’ve got a better idea.”

“Right, why do I feel I need to worry when you say you’ve got a better idea.”

“Nothing to worry about, it’s a good idea.”

“Come on then tell me.”

“We’ll lie in wait until the owner returns!”

“What part of that is a better idea than just braking down the door, finding what’s inside then getting the hell out of here?”

“My idea is heaps better, besides, I doubt there’s anything in there that would be of any use if we saw it out of context.”

“I don’t want to become a memory etched into the walls of this god forsaken place.”

“Or indeed being sucked up by an evil root?”

“Exactly my point.”

“None the less, we are staying.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

To Be Continued...