The Gate by Riley Banks
THE GATE
By Riley Banks
Published by: Aussieicon Books
Copyright Aussieicon Books 2012
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When Paul and I first viewed this sprawling country home, the first word that sprung to mind was serene, and with the property’s bucolic gardens of pea green foliage and wild riots of springtime flowers, it was little wonder we fell in love at first site.
We wanted more for our girls than the concrete jungles Paul and I had grown up in. Sure, it was thirty thousand dollars over our price range but the pros far outweighed the cons.
From the minute we moved in, the old place fit like a glove, and coming home to that gorgeous, white picket fence had the power to restore one’s equilibrium after a busy day at the office.
Not today.
Today, the gate is open, sending me into a state of agitation worthy of any psychiatrist’s lounge.
“Berta. Berta, where are you?” My voice rises in pitch as I call out to the nanny, seeing no sign of the girls who, as regular as clockwork, greet me at the gate each afternoon, almost as if they have an inbuilt clock in their tiny, little bodies.
“Is that the time already?” Berta says, padding lazily out to the front yard as if she doesn’t have a care in the world, a tea towel slung over her left shoulder. She has not yet noticed the open gate.
Hysteria bubbles and fizzes like an effervescent tablet dropped on my tongue. “Where are the girls?” My voice is scratchy; stretched thin over rebellious vocal cords.
“They were playing...” Berta glances at the gate, her eyes saying it all. She knows our history, knows my paranoia. “Maybe they are inside,” she suggests, heading back into the house to check, calling out the girls’ names over and over again. “Bella. Carrie. Are you in here?”
While every fiber of my being hopes to hear their sing-song voices answer, to see their chubby little legs come running, my heart already knows it is false hope.
It all goes back to that bloody gate.
If it hadn’t been open, I could believe another ending was possible.
Closed, the gate guards the pathway to paradise. Open, it becomes an omen; a harbinger of death.
Don’t be stupid, I chastise myself. He’s in prison. He can’t hurt me anymore.
But unbidden, my brain has already transported me back in time.
*******
Parking the car at the front of the property, I duck around to the back of the car, first unclipping Bella out of her car seat and positioning her on a hip before repeating the process with Carrie. Thankfully Paul has left the gate unhinged. The lock is so fiddly it’s troublesome even without my twins in arms, near impossible with.
“Paul, I’m home,” I call as I make my way up the cobblestoned path.
There is no answer. I twist and turn so I can see my watch. It’s a little after one. Paul should be here. He promised to make lunch.
Promised! Huh. More like bribed me with a meal to get out of visiting my mother. Every fortnight it is the same. I perform my daughterly duties of visiting my aging mother, putting up with her criticisms and bitterness, realizing that soon she, too, will be gone.
But Paul always has some excuse to avoid going. We both know the truth. He cannot stand my mother, despite us being married twelve years and together almost twenty. My mother has the ability to rub Paul up the wrong way.
I can detect no aromatic scent in the air, which means my darling husband has probably done his normal thing. In his mind, making lunch means making the call to get lunch. Is that where he is now, collecting Indian or Thai from the local shops?
His car is in the driveway. Maybe he walked. He has been on a fitness kick these last few months, his not-so-subtle attempts to encourage me to join him pointing out that I, too, could improve my fitness.
But any healthy thoughts disappear the minute my mouth starts watering, imagining the culinary delights my taste buds will get. Then again, anything has to be better than Paul really cooking.
Carrie squirms in my arms. “Down, Mama.”
A split second later, as if operating on synchronized timing, Bella squirms too. “Play,” she says, pointing to the cubby house and sand pit we erected in the front garden.
It is such a beautiful day. Surely there is no harm in them playing in the garden for a few minutes.
I let the twins down, smiling as they toddle off hand-in-hand.
The porch step creaks beneath my feet as I make my way towards the front door. It, too, is open and a prickle of apprehension creeps up my spine.
“Paul?” My policeman husband is obsessed with security. He would never leave it open if he weren’t home. So why isn’t he answering?
As I cross the threshold the first thing that assaults me is the smell. It is putrid, like metallic feces, sending my stomach into freefall, slapping the contents of my mother’s tea-and-scones up against my ribs like water against a boat hull.
My senses are on high alert as I tiptoe across the lounge and into the kitchen. Here, the smell is more concentrated.
A second later, I know why.
“No.” The single word becomes an explosion in the eerie silence, reverberating off the walls and ceilings until I think I am going mad.
I fall to my knees in a pool of blood, lifting Paul’s head into my lap, one shaking hand trying to stem the flow while the other fumbles with my cell phone to call for help.
On the other end, a disembodied voice answers, “911. What’s your emergency?”
“My husband has been hurt…” The stench of shit overpowers everything else and I gag, struggling to get the words out.
Where is the smell coming from?
Somewhere in the back of my memory, I recall Paul telling me that when people near death, they lose control of bodily functions. The smell is so strong… Does that mean I’m too late?
Paul’s brown eyes flutter open and his bloody lips part, his voice hissing out like air escaping a deflating tire.
“Hello? Can you describe your husband’s injuries?”
As relieved as I am that Paul is still clinging to life, I know if he does not get help soon, he won’t make it.
“Yes, he’s been stabbed,” I say, my eyes immediately drawn to the multiple stab wounds marring his muscular body.
“What is your address?”
Paul speaks again but I miss what he is saying, giving the 911 operator our address and details instead, urging them to hurry.
A third time my husband speaks. This time, I put my ear close to his mouth, trying to make out the words. Bloody spittle from his lips stains my. It sounds like he is saying ‘rah’ but that makes no sense.
“I don’t understand,” I say, frustration and fear clawing at my throat, making me desperate.
His hand clutches my wrist, pulling me close with a strength that defies his injuries. This time I understand his warning. He is not saying ‘rah’. He is saying ‘run’.
The single word sends adrenaline coursing through my veins. I drop the phone, scrambling to my knees, slipping and sliding in my husband’s gore.
But the second I turn around, I know I am too late. The front door slams shut with the finality of the grave and he is standing there – my husband’s assailant – holding Bella and Carrie’s pudgy little hands in his blood covered ones.
“Ah Laura, you’re home. I’ve been waiting for you.”
*********
I force mys
But if that is true, why are my hands trembling? Why is my heart beating a military tattoo in my chest? Why have my bowels turned to water?
John Stanley Anderson.
Once upon a time, he’d simply been John; Paul’s partner in the police force.
But a long, drawn out court case has a way of imprinting a man’s full name on one’s psyche.
Two hours John held the girls and I captive while the police barricaded the property, while my husband slowly bled to death right before my eyes, while an ambulance that could have saved his life sat uselessly in the driveway, it’s red and blue flashing lights prolonging my pain.
Finally, after an eternity in hell, the police stormed the once-peaceful property, dragging John away.
But not before he promised to exact revenge.
For what, I still don’t know.
John never spoke about his motivations, never mentioned why he stabbed his partner and friend thirty three times. Never explained what had prompted such a savage attack. He just stared at me with those hateful eyes.
To this day, I still have no idea what revenge John spoke about.
“Someone on the phone for you, Mrs Wells,” Berta says, handing me the cordless telephone, drawing me back to the present.
I place it to my ear. It is Gary, Paul’s former captain. The second I hear his voice, dread becomes a raging river through my eardrums. I know what he will tell me. Somehow, I had already guessed.
“Laura, I hate to be the bringer of bad news but John escaped from prison this morning.”
The open gate, the girls’ disappearance… Of course it had to be John.
Like Alice down the rabbit hole, I tumble into the black abyss of my worst nightmare.
If you have enjoyed this short story, you might like to check out Riley’s feature length books. For more information, go to www.rileybank.net