The Broken Bottle Top Part 3

Part 3

My mother married six months after my father’s death. Amidst all kinds of queries, rumours and scandalous talk, my present stepfather took my mother down the aisle of the small village church.

 

There was scarcely a day of peace and quiet in our home. They separated five months later and my stepfather went to reside with relatives in the country.  Since they were not officially divorced, he would still visit our home occasionally but there was nothing much to the relationship. In spite of all the outward signs of disinterest my mother showed, she would still at times confess to me how much she had loved my father and even then she had still missed him very much. I often wondered, if such was really the case, why did she so hurriedly marry again after my father’s death.

My reverie of thought was rudely interrupted by the chiming of the clock on the cabinet. I jumped.  I had not realised that I was so deep in my thoughts. I believe that I must have even dozed a little.  My feet felt a little cramped so I flexed them until the feeling eased. The time was now 2:04 a.m. “Could he still be out there?”

This was not the first time that I had encountered such torment from my father’s assassin. On his occasional visits to our home, he would take time off to remind me that he could eliminate me any time he felt like it. There was also a time when I had met him in the woods on one of my bird ventures. He never lost an opportunity to remind me of what he would do to me if ever he learnt that I had betrayed him. It seemed to me however, that whether I betrayed him or not, he would end my life anyhow.

I should have told the police or maybe even my mother. At least they might have extended some measure of security to me, especially when my mother was working the night shift. I mentally decided that if I ever lived to see the dawn, I would go straight to the police with what I knew. For the time being, however, I would simply telephone them and tell them that someone seemed to be prowling around the house.

Even as I was thinking, I was acting. I rose from the sofa and walked as lightly as I could down the passage to the dining room where the telephone was. As I reached out to take off the receiver, a funny thing happened. The phone rang. I froze like a statue, with my hand just poised over the receiver. It rang, and rang and rang. “It’s him,” I thought. It would not have been the first such call I had received from him. I decided I would not answer. But then a thought jarred me. ”What if it’s your mother?”

I took up the receiver. “Hello, Luke’s residence. Can I help you?” There was heavy breathing on the other side. When I heard the voice, I was not entirely surprised. It said in a muffled tone, as if the mouthpiece was covered with a handkerchief, “I know you are alone and your mother has gone to work. I am not around the house any longer, neither am I far away. Thanks to the phone company’s thoughtfulness for installing a phone booth here. I thought I would give you a friendly warning. After tonight’s act, you are probably very afraid. If you do anything foolish, like calling the Police, they won’t believe you anyway. Remember, I won’t be far away. I’ll see them before you do and I’ll get you before they get me.” I believed him and I knew he meant every word.

I was very afraid. “What kind of man was he? It seems as though if he could read my very thoughts and feelings,” I surmised. It was a fairly warm night, yet I shuddered. A cold, almost death-like feeling came over me. “Would this night never end?” I asked myself.

  

The telephone rang again. “Oh, not again!” I shouted to myself. “Anyway, I could as well answer. He knows I am not asleep,” I convinced myself. I took up the receiver.  The voice at the other end called out,  “David, did I wake you? Mummy here. Just a very strong urge to call you and find out if everything is all right.”

It was not the first time my mother had called home at such an hour. She knew that there were times when I could just lie awake and stare at the ceiling. Once she had taken me to the doctor who had said that I had a moderate case of insomnia. He had prescribed some sleeping pills. I had long stopped taking them since I was not sure I wanted to sleep. You see, each time I slept, I had such horrible dreams that I preferred to stay awake for as long as I could. Maybe this was not so bad after all. I did so much reading that I was top student in all of my forms.

I hesitated before answering my mum.  I wondered if it was not the best thing to tell her what had happened that night.  I believe I would have told her if I had not received that call from my father’s assassin.  I finally blurted out, “Everything is all right, Mum.  I was just here reading one of my school books.” 

“Are you sure?” She asked.

 “I’m sure, ” I lied.

With a “See you at 6:30 a.m.,” she put down the receiver.  There was a long click at the other end or so it seemed to me.  “Was that click the signal that my last hope had gone?” My mum had said, “See you at 6:30 a.m.  Would I see her when she sees me, or would I be in the morgue?” 

I put down the telephone receiver and went thoughtfully to my room.  It was shrouded in darkness and I thought it best not to switch on the light. If he were back out there it was best not to let him know that I had left the living room.  I lay across the bed with my feet dangling over the side and I thought.  There was really nothing else to do.

Stay tune for Part 4 of "The Broken Bottle Top".

Stewart Russell © 1979