The Shrine on Suicide Hill by Jonathan Sweet
The Shrine on Suicide Hill by Jonathan Sweet
Copyright 2013 Jonathan Sweet
Smash Words Edition License Notes:
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THE SHRINE ON SUICIDE HILL by Jonathan Sweet
The village of High Church slouched, an unkempt nest of crumbling houses and shops, on the island’s barren curves. The hungry sea lapped at the shore, eating away at the land with a hundred foaming tongues. Evelyn gasped when she saw it, her hands trembling. I’ve dreamt of this place for so long, she thought. And now I’m here. She could almost hear the milky grey water whispering Georgia’s name beneath the drone of her car. She gripped the steering wheel tightly and stamped the accelerator. Shrill cries of gulls and naughty children laughing in the distance. Evelyn’s tacky office job and her even tackier flat in Bristol seemed millions of miles away. Now the village of High Church and the cemetery on the hill loomed in her view like hard ancient sentinels.
Bands of freckled children chased Evelyn’s car through the center of town. One child ran, pressing one hand against her fender and dangling a toad from the other. Evelyn mashed her brakes and the car stopped, kicking up a white cloud of dust behind it. The boy lurched forward, his pale green eyes boring into hers. Evelyn tried to wave him away, but the boy leaned closer, sat the toad on the windshield and squashed it with the flat of his hand.
Evelyn stormed out of the car, seized the boy by the wrist and slapped him hard across the face. “You wicked little bastard,” she hissed.
“You can’t do that,” he said. “I’m an acolyte.”
“I don’t give a damn if you’re the choirmaster,” Evelyn said. “That was a wicked thing you just did.” White splotches swirled in front of her eyes and her hand stung from the blow she’d delivered. Must have smacked the little shit a good one.
The boy’s eyes darkened in an expression that bordered on amazement. “It won’t go well for you at all,” he said with a solemn shake of his head. “Not if you keep mussing up the acolytes.”
This child’s a sadist, she thought. After a moment, Evelyn decided the boy must be the son of a local clergyman—a bishop, perhaps. Too much church talk has warped his little brain. Now he’s a sociopath, the poor bastard.
Evelyn shot out her finger and aimed it at the green-grey clump of gore fanned out like grotesque wings on the glass. “Go fetch your father,” she demanded. “I’d like a word with him.”
The boy laughed.
Evelyn slapped him again. I’ll not be mocked.
The boy threw his head back again in laughter, pale green eyes sparkling. The other children joined in, circling round Evelyn as though playing a game. They pointed and laughed, all with pale green eyes, some with ropes of saliva dripping from their grinning freckled faces. I’ll not be mocked. Not by Georgia and not by the lot of you. Evelyn flipped up the collar of her jacket, plopped down in the car, and drove off. I can find the church easily enough, she thought. And then I can tell the bishop about the depraved child he’s raised.
***
The only public house in High Church was The Seaman’s Shanty. Its ancient driftwood sign flopped in the breeze, like a fish dangling on the line. Inside, the odors of grease and stale beer swirled through the heavy yellow air. Two old men sat at a table next to the bar. One frowned over a chess board, while the other whittled deep gashes in the table with his pocket knife. Their faces flickered blue as a rugby match ran its ugly course on the television in front of them. Nothing stirred behind the bar, except dust particles and a spider’s web caught in the draft. Evelyn maneuvered past the old men, who took no notice of her, and leaned against the sticky bar.
“Hello?” she called into the amber shadows behind the bar. “Anyone back there?”
The old whittler shook in a fit of phlegmy coughing. His companion groaned, and surrendered his white king.
“That damned Scottish Maneuver again!” said the beaten chess player. “I’m sick to death of you using that.”
The whittler lifted a shaggy eyebrow. “And I’m sick to death of walloping the piss out of you with it.”
Evelyn returned her attention to the bar. A girl had appeared from the darkness while Evelyn was eavesdropping on the chess game. Her heavy lidded grey eyes—which made her seem very much older than seventeen—floated over Evelyn’s body.
“Could you fetch the innkeeper for me?” Evelyn asked, ignoring the sensation that the girl’s gaze had left a greasy residue on her flesh.
The girl offered only a tired sigh in response.
“That’s Frankie,” said the chess loser. “She’s the nearest thing we’ve got to a barmaid in High Church.”
“But I need a room,” Evelyn protested, not knowing whether to address Frankie or the chessman.
“She’ll serve you,” the old man said as he dropped a handful of pawns into a velvet sack. “All the others have gone to afternoon services.”
“Is the innkeeper at church?”
The two old men froze, furrowed their brows, and gushed out waves of booming laughter. Frankie grunted. The rugby spectators on television roared and cheered.
The old whittler caught his breath after a moment and said, “Don’t be daft, girl!” Then he and his companion waddled out, still laughing with hands clasped over their ample bellies. The bell above the door jangled and yellow fog crowded in on Evelyn as Frankie stood staring at her.
“Got a room?” Evelyn asked. “I could do with a bath. After the long drive, I mean.”
“I’m Francesca,” the girl said in a voice so deep and wise that it startled Evelyn. Such a big voice from such a small girl. “Everyone in town calls me Frankie.”
“So I gathered. Very pleased to meet you.”
Frankie stepped closer, her arms limp, her gait slinky. She stooped behind the bar and produced a key from a rusted coffee tin. She tossed it onto the bar. “Your room’s at the top of the stair.”
Evelyn slid her credit card under Frankie’s fingers.
Frankie shook her head. “We’ll settle up before you leave High Church. It’s always been our way.”
“Right. Thanks,” Evelyn said, stuffing the key and her card in her coat pocket.
Frankie stretched her arms and leaned against the bar, mashing her tiny breasts on its shiny surface, snickering.
Evelyn’s eye twitched. They’re all mad, she thought. “You all right? Does your stomach hurt?”
Frankie pretended not to hear. Instead, she began to grunt again—soft and breathy. Evelyn turned and nearly sprinted to her room. Frankiepadded slowly behind her. She shoved her hand in her pocked and fumbled for the room key. I’ll lock myself in, and slip out again after a nap.
Footsteps, faster than before. I dare not look back … but she did, in spite of herself. Frankie mounted the top step and slouched up behind her. Arms limp. Panting. She thrust the key into the lock, opened the door, hopped inside and slammed the door on Frankie’s foot. The heavy oak door rattled and groaned on its hinges. Frankie didn’t flinch.
“This is your room,” she said. “Have a look about. See if it suits you.”
Evelyn stripped off her overcoat and flung it on the small bed (or is it a cot?) at the center of the wood paneled pill box of a room, complete with a rickety nightstand, an antique ceramic bowl sink, and hot plate. Ivory towels and a bar of cinnamon-colored glycerin soap were stacked at the foot of the bed. A length of cord for hanging wet laundry stretched across the room. The cemetery on the hill glowered down at them through the open window. Gulls shrieked.
“Does it suit you?”
Evelyn nodded with feigned enthusiasm. “Yes—admirable.” She picked up the soap and snif
“The bath is down the hall.”
“Thank you.”
Frankie pursed her pale pink lips and stepped closer. She leaned her head against the curve of Evelyn’s neck. “You come here for Georgia?” Frankie asked, her breath tickling the rim of Evelyn’s ear.
Through the window, Evelyn could hear a child humming tunelessly on the hill. She dropped the soap, jerked her head toward the window and shuddered. Nothing but shadows and thistle. “Yes,” she said, her mouth dry. “I’m here for Georgia. But how could you have known that?”
“I am her acolyte.” Wind rattled the shutters and swept the sound of humming out to sea.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course not.”
Evelyn stamped her foot, a trick that used to make Georgia confess all. But the slouching, freckled girl wasn’t buying any of it. She’s an old soul. She knows you too well.
“I am to comfort you,” Frankie said after a long silence. Her lips brushed Evelyn’s neck as she spoke.
“What do you mean?” Evelyn asked, knowing exactly what she meant.
The girl pressed her lips against Evelyn’s, reminding her of Georgia and their first nervous couplings. Frankie shed her sweater and twisted the frayed pink bra from her slim, angular frame. Evelyn cupped her hands over Frankie’s freckled breasts, her fingers straddling the taut flesh of her nipples, and ached with anticipation.
“Wait,” Evelyn protested. “How old are you?” she asked.
“Old,” Frankie said. “You needn’t worry.”
Evelyn became naked and Frankie touched her as Georgia once did. Before the games. Before the rope.