Part 4 - The Discovery

Part 1 can be found here

Mysterious deaths. Font bold, 36 point. Times New Roman. Hard to ignore. Mysterious. Deaths. Richard folded the newspaper open, ripped pages out. Twisted mouth. Glaring, a focus in his eyes. He fed each page to the fire. Flames and emotions roared. Only the fire died quickly. Wracked by sobs, back pumping, heaving uncontrollably. Maureen had been number three.

The rain continued to piss down.
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How quickly the early summer had filled with heat. Moving day, faint scent of honeysuckle at the gate. The breeze nuzzled, but was not enough to cool the temperature . Air as thick as cold custard; as stifling as parents.

Removal men remarked on nothing. Lifted, carried, lifted. Carried. Sweat, blue veins standing out at the temples and arms of each man as he struggled. A grunt, call for rest, a reassessment of gaps and weight distribution. They did the job they were being paid for admirably and without complaint. Later, on the drive to the new house they would bitch about Richard. Hated his lack of help, loathed his offers of tea he then forgot to make. All very convenient, they would say to their boss.

Richard and Maureen rounded up the cats; two of them, both grey, both fat - contentment and old age joining forces to broaden stomachs. Mewling in arms, pusheunceremoniouslyly and somewhat ignominiously into cages, in full view of the patient removal men.

All packed up. Done. A quick spring clean around the house. One last look around. Forgotten nothing. Removal van hummed, shaking from side-to-side as engine ticked over. They want to get on, want time for lunch. Shot arrows of hate from their eyes at Richard, as if he were the dog owner who'd allowed his pet to shit on the path just so they would step in it.

The first spots of the rain that would mark the day they moved began to fall.
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Richard howled, the pain so intense. Loss was a burden, the terrain it created difficult to traverse. He slammed fists into walls, feet at doors; ripping the house apart. Selling it was the wrong thing to do. It needed to be gone. Razed to the ground. Extinction. The rain got harder, stinging shots against glass, the sound like a million buzzing flies. The fire dead in the grate.

Plaster fell, soft in his hands. Digging at walls. A keening cry, mouth emitting between weeping. Face: snot tears anger. Hands smashing, pushing out hatred for what was once a place to call home, a shelter from the bad things.

There had been another death, years back. Almost twenty years ago. Not long after the house had been erected, settled in to the earth. No memory of those days now, only available at the local library. Mr Abbot; he was never a buyer. Previous owner. Yes, he'd fled, run, the proverbial wind behind him. He knew about the disease that had riddled Maureen, seen it. First-hand. He'd fled. Out, into the blasted rain. Constant.

Loose bricks shifted, collapsed. Richard didn't stop. Clawed. Finger nails plugged with dust. Caked. The rain continued to piss down . Hands blindly pulling. Catching on something, not brick. Richard pauses, listening; neck kinked and eyebrow raised. He wants to hear what his fingers grasp. To hear the voice, the story. Deeper, excavating, hands pulling at bricks. There she was, held with brittle hessian. There was the reason for the deaths.

The rain continued to piss down. A steady stream.

Concludes here