Time to Die

Gentle fingertips touched her skin, as they pla

‘Don’t move an inch,’ he said, dominating the moment.

‘You’re very serious,’ she giggled, biting her lip as the pen tickled her skin.

‘Shh, I’m concentrating.’

Dropping her hand, she felt like a living piece of art, as he worked, creating goose bumps, blowing the ink dry before dotting her skin with coloured pens. The pen dipped before reaching the curve of her hip, and quickened as it reached the end. Will’s breathing had also deepened, and as he reached her hip, he coughed to clear his throat. ‘Do you want me to stop here?’

‘No,’ Je

‘You’re killing me, Je

She turned to face him, the cool breeze of the night on her naked body. She could almost feel Will’s heart pound against her as she pulled him towards her. There was no point in trying to fight it any more, and as Will’s lips found hers, she wrapped her limbs around his. His tongue flickered and he pulled away, his eyes unsure, questioning. Face flushed, Je

Afterwards they lay in silence until Je

Will stroked her tousled hair. ‘I think you’ll like it.’

Je

Overwhelmed, she could hardly breathe. ‘It’s beautiful. I wish it was permanent.’

‘Sorry we didn’t get to finish it,’ he gri

‘Where’s your tattoo? Or was it all a ploy?’

‘No ploy, I guess you’re going to have to look for it.’

It was then that she saw the words, in the i

‘Wow, that’s quite profound. I never knew you had so many hidden depths, Mr Dunston,’ Je

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Bert

Bert had come home from school to find mother asleep in bed. His senses dictated that napping was just another means of avoidance. He gobbled down the cold sausage sandwich on the table along with a glass of milk. The cupboard hinges whined in indignation as he gingerly searched for food. There was little point, because homemade pies or cakes were only baked for good boys like Callum. But Callum wasn’t here any more and Bert was not a good boy. Kicking off his worn leather shoes, he strode to his room. With the promise of a full moon, he needed to get some sleep, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to get up to visit the woods later on.

His eyes lit on the package on his bed. He ran his fingers over the smooth brown paper, slowly picking at the Sellotape with his bitten-down nails. It wasn’t his birthday, and even if it was, that day had been dedicated to Callum. Mother’s candles had burned brightly next to the framed photo on the dresser, and nothing was allowed to interfere with her mourning.

He dragged the heavy box from the top of the bed and sat on the floor with it between his legs. It was postmarked and addressed to his mother. But it must have been for him otherwise she wouldn’t have left it there. Chewing the corner of his lip, he tore back another strip of paper, enjoying the tingly feeling of receiving a gift of his very own. He hardly noticed his mother’s slim frame leaning against the door as he eagerly cast away the packaging. The gift was mail order by the look of it, and it was no coincidence it had arrived the week his father left for a fishing trip to the coast. He spent more and more time away from home now, and mother had a suspicion he was getting comfort elsewhere. At least, that’s what Bert heard her say when she mumbled to herself during the day. After Callum died, her singing was replaced by the hum of prayer. When the pain and anger became too much, she ditched prayer and began talking to herself. Sometimes she became so animated in her conversations she would stamp her feet against the wooden floor, or hammer her fists on the table as she ate. Any attempt to interrupt her would be met with clenched fists and a steely glare.

She had been a lot kinder to him since he lied about communicating with Callum. Bert surmised that such contact may have been possible, but there was no way he was going to try. He had not wanted to hear from his brother when he was alive, much less after he had sent him to his death.

Bert unwrapped the globular-shaped package first. At first he thought it was a world globe, but as he tore off the rest of the paper, he revealed a glass ball on a black plastic plinth. It was hard and heavy, and he looked at his mother quizzically. She nodded at him to open the other packages. The second was a flat wooden board, all letters and numbers, with a small wooden plinth on a roller ball. He had heard about ouija boards at school, but the ones the kids spoke about were homemade, nothing as sophisticated as this. Smiling, he opened the third and last package. It was small, square, and heavy in his palm. Ripping open the paper he stared at the red velvet pouch, and after a cursory glance at his mother, eased the gold strings open to reveal a strange-looking deck of cards.

‘They’re tarot cards,’ she said, smiling. The expression looked alien on her face, and lasted only a second before falling back into her customary anxious frown. ‘They’re all for you, Bert, so you can talk to Callum. But only when your father’s not around. Do you think it will help you speak to him?’

Bert shrugged. He didn’t feel like being kind to her today. But then he caught the edge of a doubtful thought and sprang from the floor to hug her.

‘Don’t be sad, mummy, I’ll speak to him tonight, I promise.’

Grace nodded unconvincingly, as she tried to extricate herself from his hug. ‘In that case I’ll leave you to it. I’m going back to bed.’

The house was eerily quiet in the absence of mother’s singing. In the olden days, she would be doing something productive, baking, painting, or chatting with father. Now the house was as bleak as the light behind her eyes, and Bert could barely stand it. The barbed thoughts, the pity of his school classmates … if it weren’t for his ally the raven, he would have felt very alone.