Albatross

The Move

Friday, 18. April 2008, 10:00:17

The Move

Mr Marks heard the shrill sound of children laughing as the estate agent pulled the car up to the kerb. The houses were large, old enough to have seen the last hundred years pass by, without touching them too much. Front gardens too, boiling over railings with a froth of greenery and selective dots and dashes of colour. Mr Marks gripped his wife's cool hand and smiled with a look in his eye that could only be appreciated by her. She gripped his hand back and copied his smile.
“The area looks lovely.” She said.

The estate agent turned the car off and cast a look over his shoulder, his tanned square of a face resting on his bright white sleeveless shirt.

“It's probably one of the best areas we have property in, great for a new family just starting out.” He unlocked his door and slid out, a large bunch of keys jangling out the side of his fist.” Great if your kids have left home, too.” He added, leaning his face in through the door.

Mr and Mrs Marks climbed out of the car and straightened their clothes as the agent locked the doors with his remote.
“There's very little crime in the area, but this gives peace of mind.”
“Yes.” Mr Marks agreed. “That's what we want, above all.”
He looked along the length of the avenue, noting how either ends seemed to be beyond reach; a trick caused by thick gardens and a subtle bending of the road.
“It's very quiet. Is this normal for this time of day?”
“Good question. You've done this before. Well, this is around early noon and it is a week day, but it doesn't get much busier than this. The avenue doesn't really lead anywhere so you won't get too much traffic cutting through. As you can see most of the houses have no garages so the roadside is used for parking, but, well, there's no hourly parade.”
The agent laughed and busied himself with the bunch of keys. Each had a paper tag.
“Ah, here it is, number 179. We'll have a look around, shall we?”

Mr Marks inspected the neighbours' gardens as they waited for the agent to unlock the porch doors. They were mostly as tidy as he expected, and saw few signs of life; A boy's blue bicycle peeking from behind the side of number 183, and a large pink cardboard box with a picture of a doll's house printed on the side waited by a swollen black bin bag at number 177.
The agent tugged the porch doors open and began to fiddle around for the key to the front door.
“The gardens are locally quite well known, Mr Marks. I believe they have small competitions and such. For the better ones. I have a cousin who lives in the next avenue.”
“The gardens are lovely.”Mrs Marks admitted, her high heeled shoes squeaking on the paving as she spun around to look.

The rooms were white and empty, Mr Marks saw. There was a smell of paint. Although none of the walls looked freshly decorated.
“The banister has been painted right up to the attic room.” The agent said, scratching his nose with the front door key, and jangling the bunch. His white shirt made the walls look grubby.
“This is of course the front room, never been knocked through into the back room. So far. Always an option.”
Mrs Marks's high heels echoed in another part of the house. As slow and thought-out as if attending a display at an art gallery.
“Double glazed, but you can have it removed without damaging the original frames...”
Mr Marks nodded and walked around the spacious room, allowing the agent's voice to blur at the back of his thoughts.

They found Mrs Marks in the kitchen, peering out of the window onto the green rectangle of the back garden. A small tool shed crouched in one corner like a guard's hut, left unattended.
“Ah, Mrs Marks, you'll be wanting to know about the plumbing for your appliances.”
She looked at him and smiled without opening her mouth.
“Can we go outside?”

“The fencing is not too high, but you can extend as far as ten feet if you choose. We can do that for you.”
“We do like our privacy.” Mr Marks said, walking to the end of the garden where the sound of children's laughter was loudest.
“Your neighbours are a great bunch. We have a few houses for let on the avenues. So any problems with noise or things like that it's best to contact us first, in case it's one of our tenants. But I don't think you'll have any complaints. The price bracket is pretty exclusive. You were lucky to have first offer on this place.”
Mrs Marks followed her husband, as he walked the entire perimeter of the garden.
“We love it.” He said.

Mr Marks pulled the car up outside the house and switched off the engine. He looked at his wife until she turned and gave him a broad smile.
“This won't take long.” he told her.” But let's both go.”
She nodded and they climbed out of the car and slammed the doors. Mr Marks went around the back of the car and unlocked the trunk. A large brown suitcase filled most of the space. He took it by the handle and pulled it upright.
“Can you unlock the doors for me?” He said to his wife, handing her the bunch of keys. She took them and walked ahead of him as he hoisted the suitcase out of the car and slammed the trunk shut.

By the time he had carried it to the house his wife had both the porch and the front door unlocked.

“Come in with me, won't you.” he said, when she stepped out of his way.
She nodded and followed him into the house.

Mr Marks laid the suitcase down on its side in the front room and stood up. He walked quickly to the bay windows and peered out, checking all the gardens and what he could see of the road. Things were quiet, being early noon.
“We can do it now.” he said.
His wife gave him a smile that said little, but he understood. He walked to her and put his hand on her arm.
“You go back to the car. I'll do it all.”
He listened to her high heels find their way outside and down the path. When he heard the slam of the car door he knelt down by the suitcase. He stroked the slightly raised flank of it, feeling the coolness.
Then he found the zip and worked it open, slowly parting the teeth. Once he had it completely undone and could easily lift the flap with his finger, he let it flop back onto the contents of the suitcase and stood up.

“You'll soon find your way around.” He said, as a thin leg that ended at a small dirty red shoe slipped out of the opening in the suitcase.
The leg was dressed in tight fitting trousers, striped, and grimy like the footwear. A second leg slipped out, identical to the first. A sound like a high pitched whine escaped the case as the legs began to slowly stretch out to their full length.

“You'll soon remember what to do.” Mr Marks said, turning to leave. He undid the bolt on the back door and opened it a little.

“It won't take long to work it out.” He said, more to himself, than anyone. Then he left the house and climbed into the car and drove away, hearing the sound of child's laughter in a garden further up the avenue.

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I didn't hit that woman!!

Tuesday, 18. March 2008, 10:06:36

I didn't hit a woman. It was a lie spread by Mr Thwaite. I was at home trying to watch a TV program about a man who lived with puppets like they were his kids and I kept hearing this crying noise. It was putting me off. I searched all over trying to find it. I didn't think it was anyone in the street because I'm the only one living around here now. Unless a tramp got lost and decided to live next door.
I tracked it down to outside though. It was loudest at the end of the back garden, in the shed. But even in there I couldn't find a crying woman. Then I found a little hole in the back wall of the shed. There's a ditch on the other side and then an electric fence and then a big field with long grass owned by Mr Thwaite.
I had a look through the hole and thought I could see something round in the ditch. That's where the crying was coming from. I shouted at it but the crying kept up. So I got an hammer out of my dead dad's tool box and made the hole in the shed wall a bit bigger. And then I think I must have smelled some of dad's special grease or one of his glues because I couldn't see very well and was day dreaming. It happens a lot in the shed. Dad's stuff is always rotting in packets and tins and letting off smoke and funny gas that gets up your nose.
And I went a bit funny because I found myself with my arm poked through the hole in the shed wall and I had the hammer in my hand, and I was whacking at the round thing in the ditch.
It didn't last long because the thing was soft and burst after a couple of hard whacks. Then a horrible stink, worse than anything in dad's shed, got up my nose and I felt all funny again.

Later, I woke up in my house and found PC Baxter on my front step with his push bike. He was pumping his wheel up and wanted to come in because of a complaint.
He said someone had seen me hitting a woman.

I knew who had told straight away. Mr Thwaite had done it. It wasn't the first time. I knew what had happened. Mr Thwaite was a model train maker. He was mad about them. Used to own a shop selling them. And he had put tracks down in the long grass in the big field at the back, on the other side of the ditch. He runs model trains around on the tracks. Little ones with little wooden men in them. I watched him from my bedroom window, putting down the tracks. He has a little town too, which the train goes through. And other buildings here and there. He must watch them go around with his binoculars. Stupid.

And he thinks I get up to stuff.

I was digging a hole in my garden a few months ago, because I wanted a frog pond. He must have thought I was digging a grave because he sent his train out. It runs right up against the electric fence and back again to his house. He sent it out with all the wooden passengers in the carriages with their heads turned to look in my direction as it went along the fence. Like they were watching me. Their painted faces looked real. And he'd made them so they looked angry at me.

I wondered if he had a tiny camera on the train so he could take pictures of me too.

Then he must have called the police because PC Baxter had come and wanted to know what I was burying. I wasn't, I told him. I was digging up a frog pond. And he went away.

And I bet Mr Thwaite has been watching me since. Stupid man.

Now here was PC Baxter again, wanting to see the ditch. I went with him and watched as he climbed my wire fence and slid down into the little ditch. We both laughed when he dug around near the shed and found a rotting bag of nappies. Which was why there was a horrible smell in the air. He took them away with him to show Mr Thwaite and then I got back to watching TV without being distracted by any crying.

On the news I heard about Mrs Winstor, who lived down the road. She had been found dead in her garage. Fallen off a step ladder. A few weeks ago she had gotten in trouble for chucking her rubbish in the ditch and the neighbour's field. They found lots of children's clothes in her house and toys too. But her kids had died years ago. My dad had told me about it when he was still alive. She had forgot to feed them and they starved.

When the news ended I went to the shed and had a look at my dad's things. His old transistor radio still worked and I put it on. It was set on a station that was playing music that sounded like machinery. Big engines and pumps and things. Modern stuff. Or really old.
Then I must have disturbed one of my dad's tins because there was some yellow smoke up on a high shelf where I can't get at yet. I wafted it away but it still got up my nose and felt like when you burp through your nose after drinking lemonade. Then it made me feel sort of tired and excited at the same time. I didn't know if I wanted to sleep or run around looking at all my dad's stuff.

The music made it worse. Like it wanted me to dance or move like the music sounded. But my head was floppy and I couldn't see much.

Then I found myself at the hole in the shed wall again, peering out onto the ditch and the field.

I found it easier to see now, because it was brighter outside. But now my eye was dancing around to the sounds of the engines and the machines. I couldn't concentrate on anything I saw. Not until I saw the colourful thing.

The colourful thing was in Mr Thwaite's field. Coming out of the long grass. Pushing through it. His train again. All the little wooden men staring at me, looking angry. Their heads all turning to watch me as the tracks turned at the electric fence . Then their heads were on the wrong way, turned right round, as the train turned again, at the corner of his field, and took them back to his house, to report what they had seen.

Then I had gone back inside to watch TV because there was a film about dinosaurs on.

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