Room 03

The call came in about an agitated man on Mount Street.

It was early morning, the sun just nudging upward, and I was a few sips into my coffee. My partner grunted something about the Irish, whiskey and venereal disease as I shuffled out to our car.

He threw me the keys and took three swift drags on a cigarette, then tossed the rest towards the homeless man who lay sleeping by the wall at the back of the station.

Driving across town joggers pounded the pavement alone or in packs. “Fucking mothers jogging with prams are the worst,” Davis said pressing the switch for his window and gulping his black coffee.

I didn’t reply. I couldn't handle Davis until I’d had a full hit of caffeine.

I pulled up outside the unit block and as I stepped out I heard him, the agitated man. I jogged up the steps, Davis slouching behind me. Along the upper walkway that ran past five front doors, all ajar and full of eyes, was a sharp left turn and a man waving his arms frantically as a woman peered out from a gap in her door. I caught sight of the chain lock she had.

“Let me the fuck in. Who the fuck are you? Where is Meg?”

He sounded close to tears and I coughed and went to place a hand on his shoulder but stopped just before.

“Hi” I said, light tone, non-judgemental, desperately needing more coffee. “What’s the problem here?”

He turned to me. He was early thirties. Short cropped hair. Slight stubble. Wide eyes.

“Officer, my unit has been broken into and my wife kidnapped. The woman inside will not answer me.”

I looked at the woman. She was almost in tears. “Miss Derickson?” I asked and she nodded.

“You know her?” the agitated man asked.

“Miss Derickson is the one who phoned us. Now how about you come away from the door here, and we’ll try and work all of this out.”

The agitated man looked down the stairs to where a hills hoist was hung with faded towels and torn t-shirts. He turned back to the door and the stared at me with desperate eyes.

“Where’s Meg?” he said and then collapsed.

*

At the station I sat him in room 03 and ran his name through the system. He’d told us his version of things. He’d gone out for a morning run just after 5am. He’d done his five km and come home to find the door locked. He’d left it on the catch. He’d knocked lightly and then harder when Meg didn’t answer. Eventually the door opened and a stranger was staring back at him. He’d asked where Meg was and the woman had shrugged and said he was at the wrong address. He’d shaken his head. 

Explained he’d lived there for two years. Then as she’d gone to close the door he’d jammed the toe of his runner into the gap and demanded to know where Meg was.

Shortly after we’d been called.

After calming him down he’d told us his name – Peter Reynolds – and repeatedly given us the address we’d been called to as his home address. Then he’d given us his mobile number and that of Meg. He tried to call her on his phone, a shonky old Motorola flip top, but frowned and said he wasn’t getting any service. I punched her number into my phone but was told that the number dialled was not recognised.

I showed him my phone from the front seat and shrugged. “Sorry Peter, looks like her number has been disconnected.”

He stared at me, then I realised it wasn’t me.

He was staring at my phone.

*

I went into room 03 and placed a coffee and two slices of burnt fruit toast onto the table. Peter looked up at me, his crappy old Motorola inert on the tabletop. I had vague memories of playing Pairs or Snake on something like that when I should have been writing essays.

“Have you found Meg?” he asked immediately.

I gestured to the toast. “Eat mate, then we’ll see what we can work out.”

His eyes found the food and I saw saliva spill from his mouth. He snatched at the toast and took a huge bite, margarine running over his lips. As he swallowed he winced and sipped the coffee, hot though it was. He cleared the plate in under a minute and chugged the coffee down.

“Hungry huh?” I asked him and he looked at me confused.

“I guess, yeah”

I noticed his runners. They looked like a pair I’d had back in uni.

“So Peter Reynolds, husband of Meg Reynolds.”

He nodded.

“Tennant of Unit 7, 183 Mount Street.”

He nodded again.

“Employed at State Transit. Project Manager. Graduate of Sydney University.”

He nodded again.

“Have you found Meg? Only…”

I pulled my phone out and he stared at it in wonder. I pulled up the screen I’d found after a few tries on Google. A headline. I turned and showed it to Peter, believing this would end whatever prank was being played. Some kind of Channel Seven paid actor trying to revive cold cases. Some wannabe angling to get his hands on money from a deceased estate.

Peter stared and read the words I knew to be there. “Man Vanishes During Morning Run.” Beneath the headline were details about Peter Reynolds. About no trace being found. Suicide being suspected. The shoreline searched.

“What?” Peter’s mouth hung open. “I went for a run this morning.”

“Peter that’s impossible. In fact I don’t think it is possible you are Peter Reynolds so how about you start telling me what’s really going on here.”

“What do you mean I’m not Peter Reynolds?”

I looked at him. The man clearly in his early thirties.

“Peter Reynolds would be 43 now. And unless you have a damn good moisturiser mate you are not 43.”

He put a hand to his face. He coughed. He looked like he might throw up.

“F…f….f 43? Meg….where is Meg? She was preg….”

And he passed out again.

*

He was Peter Reynolds.

We dug up some photos and he was an exact match. He was still sat in room 03 nervously fidgeting as we traced Meg on the system. She was in Queensland now. Married. Two kids. One age 11, the other age 6.

11. Peter’s kid. A boy. She’d named him Peter.

I called Meg and heard a cheery voice answer. I slowly, carefully, laid out what was happening and the cheerful voice vanished. Silence replaced it. After a while I asked the question I needed to know. “Meg, is there anything distinguishing about Peter, any way we can do a verification that this is him?”

She was quiet but then said in a barely audible whisper. “Top of his left shoulder. Peter has a scar. It looks like a bite. He fell backwards onto a tent peg as a child.”

I thanked her and she asked what next. I told her we would be in touch and left her world broken in Brisbane and turned back to room 03 in Sydney.

*

Peter pulled his t shirt aside and I saw what looked to be a long faded puckered bite on his shoulder. He told me about camping. Falling.

He asked about Meg. About the pregnancy. His eyes were running red. A phone trilled outside and I realised I’d left the door open. His eyes snapped to the electronic ringing and I saw them go opaque. His lips trembled and I turned to look behind me. For a moment I saw the room beyond darken, as though the fluoro tubes had all lost current, but then the room brightened and the phone was answered.

I looked back at Peter. His face was white and he was tugging at his left arm, pulling at the skin above his elbow.

“Teeth” he said and started to sob.

*

I wanted rid of this. I typed everything up and called through to missing persons and the on duty psyche support. The man in 03 was brittle. I could see him through the glass tugging at his elbow, snapping glances at the window. Three more rounds of fruit toast had been cleared away and he was on his third coffee.

I was about to hit send on the file when it clicked that I needed a photo. I opened the door and asked Peter if I could take a quick snap. He looked in wonder at my phone as I turned it to one side and snapped a quick picture of him and then before he could say anything I returned to my desk.

I flicked the picture across to my desktop and dragged it to the e-mail. Then out of habit double clicked it open to make sure it was clear. There on my screen was Peter, staring in desperation. Mouth open. Hands slightly above the table.

And above his left elbow a long dark line that curled and drifted upwards towards the ceiling.

*

I took six more pictures.

On my phone the line was just visible but on the bigger screen it was perfectly clear. A thick dark almost wet looking rope snaking from a twist around the skin above his elbow and drifting towards the ceiling.

I showed it to Davis who shrugged and said “fuck it.”

I showed it to a few others who called it fucking weird but showed no other interest. Then I got a wave that Line 3 was a woman called Meg calling from Brisbane. I reached for the phone and wondered if I should patch it through to room 03 and let her speak to Peter. I wish I had.

As I lifted the phone I saw Davis walk into the room and saw him reach out to Peter to shake his hand. A few more questions. A different angle of approach. See if we could get to the bottom of this. As their hands touched I saw Peter snap tight as though he’d been yanked. Davis went rigid and in a moment the room was empty. Just a curl of dust in the air.

In my ear was Meg’s voice.

She was asking to speak with Peter. She’d know if it was him if she could just speak to Peter. Could she speak to Peter? Please?

Around me the station went to hell as people started to scream. The room wasn’t empty as I had first thought. The ceiling was covered in blood and as I tried to answer Meg I saw it start to rain down along with what I thought was a nose.

*

Hours later I was allowed to leave.

The pictures on my phone had been seized. My account of the morning taken. Verified. Signed off on. Room 03 was sealed. Davis was missing.

I heard a disjointed story that in Petersham a guy who’d gone missing eight years earlier had turned up with one leg missing screaming outside his old home. As soon as an ambo had touched him they’d both vanished in a gout of blood and bone fragments.

Then as I left Jordan at the front desk told me he’d just heard that in Maroubra a man had been running screaming through the streets and been recognised as a dodgy fucker who’d vanished himself three or four years back to duck out of a debt.

Someone had filmed him and Jordan showed me the clip. Teenagers laughing at the running man. A concerned Joe Public stepping into the road to calm him. The man stopping and looking desperately over his shoulder. Turning to the man and breaking into a scream. The man putting his hand out to placate. That simple human instinct of touch. Hey man it’s ok, here calm down, take it easy, let’s talk.

And the minute they touched the red and the screams and…

*

I didn’t go home.

I went to the headland where Peter had vanished. I followed the route Meg had reported twelve years before. Stepping along the path eyes scanning for the past. He ran laps along the headland, down the snaking path towards the Dunningham Reserve, back around and up Beach Street, hooking right up the hill and connecting back again.

I walked it three times and on the third I stopped and looked at the beach, at hundreds of happy people basking and swimming. I felt a chill and for a moment the sky seemed darker. As though someone had pulled a filter across the sun. a greenish filter. Sickly.

I pulled out my phone and snapped a shot of the beach. I looked down at the screen and saw the greenish hue was present. I saw  that from the sky, like spilt ink, black wisps were curling down towards the sand.

I turned and shot a snap of the town and looked down at the screen. Black lines snaking from the sky towards the shops and streets and lives.

I looked up at the late afternoon blue sky and the birds wheeling in the air. I raised my phone and took a shot directly above me. I held the phone there and looked at the image.

It was black. It was fringed with green. It was stretching towards me.

*

Now I sit in the basement of my building.

Now I eat cold beans from the can.

I piss in the empty water bottles I’ve already drunk. I shit in the corner on the floor.

I smoke more that I eat.

I hear screams. I used to hear screams. I’ve been down here for eight days. I locked myself in after I took the pictures on the headland. I’m sure some people fought back. I’m sure the army made valiant attempts. I’m sure mankind did it’s best. And its worst. I’m sure for every moment of valour there was a rape. For every life saved there was a life shattered. Whatever happened though I stayed down here. Even when I heard pounding on the door I stayed down here. Even when my snatched food supplies dwindled I stayed down here.

Then there was a moment a day, two days ago, where I knew, I fucking knew, I was the only person left on the planet.

I knew every other life had gone.

I hear them, the creatures at the end of the tendrils.

 hear them howling into the green night. I smell them, burnt sugar and copper. I hear a grinding sound of teeth gnashing at my world.

I scrawl by candlelight.

My phone is almost out of charge.

Peter Reynolds slipped into some other, some other fucking place. Some place hungry. He slipped in and slipped back. Just a blink, a flicker, but twelve years here.

Other people slipped through too and slipped back. On the same day.

But they weren’t sent home. They were bait on hooks. They were worms on fishing lines.

And I guess we taste good. A fat fucking reservoir of food.

*

My last cigarette.

My phone is on the red line.

The electricity is gone. The signal is gone. My lighter sparks and then catches and I hear that creature scream as the flame flickers.

They can smell me.

I look at the red line. 5%? 2%?

The battery almost gone. For some reason that breaks my heart more than anything else. It’ll never be charged again.

I point the phone ahead of me and take one shot. With the flash on. I don’t need to see the screen. I saw it in the light of the flash.

Black tendrils all around me, snaking closer.

A wet wide maw of teeth stained in blood and torn faces.

I’ll stand in a moment and toss my lit cigarette at it.

*

The candle is guttering and my cigarette is almost gone and I can feel something tug at my leg and if I can just keep writing then someho

The Girls Gone Away

Twenty years ago the first girl became lost

Somewhere between O’Neils fields and the frost

Her footsteps could be seen so clear in the snow

Away from the village to where no one would go

Beyond the farm house, and far past the fence line

Beyond all that O’Neil swore “is all mine”

Into the woods where nothing ever was found

With nothing to see but bare trees and cold ground

The village searched, sobbed and accused

As rage bought them nothing and hearts slowly bruised

And days became weeks and weeks became longer

And the memory of the girl grew fainter not stronger

Silently they agreed to let no feelings show

But hold their pain deep and there let it fester and grow

Until one frosty morning it just came to be

That the image of the girl no villager could see

Her parents were workers and by working each day

They forgot the pure joy of the girl gone away

And life carried on as life always will

With no remnant remaining, just long winter chill

Then seventeen years ago the second girl became lost

Somewhere between O’Neils fields and the frost

Footsteps were clear and easily traced

She’d walked from the town with no soul giving chase

She’d walked away in the depths of the night

Out of their homes and out of their sight

And as the villagers searched, sobbed and accused

They felt familiar pain in their hearts once more bruised

And this time as they searched a boy aged just six

Saw the old scarecrow of torn cloth and sticks

Saw its head tiled now on one side

Saw it turn just so slightly with a smile open wide

He saw one stick arm raise one branch to its lips

And he saw old decay blow just one kiss

The girl not found remained unreturned

And the children were berated, why could they not learn?

Stay in your homes, don’t leave don’t take risks

They were tucked warm and whole, warned and then kissed

And time did its march and inched forward once more

And feelings were locked up for certain and sure

Had her name been Suzanne? Or Airdrie? Or Jane?

No matter, no mention, it would not happen again

Then fourteen years ago the third girl became lost

Somewhere between O’Neils fields and the frost

Footprints again marching out in the snow

While people slept at home with coal fires aglow

While people slept deeply eyes closed on the world

The village of Reigns End lost its third girl

The villagers were furious and afraid and irate

Hammering new fences with and a barricade gate

They defended instead of searching afresh

They defended the north, then the south and the west

They built walls from rocks and dirt and wood

And declared the village sealed closed now for good

Then the boy, now aged a strong wiser nine

Crept to the field beyond the fence line

He skulked to the scarecrow frozen and still

And felt afraid and uncertain and bitterly ill

The scarecrow in moonlight was a shadow and form

Unmoving, uncaring and tattered from storms

“Where is she?” the boy asked and the scarecrow remained

Not speaking or winking, completely unchanged

“Where is she?” he asked and kicked at the figure

Who whipped up its head, as its smile grew bigger

Its eyes blinked wide open and his mouth was a leer

“The girls are all gone long ‘way from here”

Its voice was a hiss of hoar’s frost and death

And the boy smelt sewerage and death on its breath

The boy ran screaming and collapsed to his bed

Where memories became nightmares and nothing was said

For a week he was feverish and pale and near departed

More stress on a village so oft’ broken hearted

Then temperature dropped and appetite returned

But of what he’d seen no parent or friend would learn

For as with the grief that the town rushed to subdue

The boy submerged his encounter and believed it not true

Seven years passed this time before a new girl was lost

Somewhere between O’Neils fields and the frost

O’Neil was long dead and his son moved away

But the fields were O’Neils so the town’s folk would say

A new church had risen and farming had changed

And people had moved and homes rearranged

Old fears were superstitions neither founded nor real

And light and base fact left all things revealed

The girl simply vanished just as with the others

Walking away from her family and her two baby brothers

No traces, no signs, no hope, and no sight

Just there during the day and then gone to the night

The villagers were solemn and sombre and stoic

With no act undertaken be they cowardly or heroic

They mumbled and trod and gave heed to a search

But they never mentioned loss or acknowledged hurt

And the boy now sixteen huddled deep in his home

Afraid to go out and face things alone

He knew the scarecrow was in O’Neils field yet still

Turning its head with its slashed mouth and ill will

He knew it was waiting and abiding aware

But he just could not move, just would not dare

So the year passed and stained the boy in shame

And he hung his head silently absorbed all the blame

And the village continued and never spoke of the loss

And the village returned to winter and frost

Then just three years past, the boy now a man

Turned to the fields able now to understand

The woods were no danger, just the thing in the field

The thing that one winter had malice revealed

The boy now a man with girls of his own

Who he watches each night and never lets alone

The boy now a man with a mans pain and remorse

And a mans intent to alter an ill fates course

And the boy now a man married to a wife he adores

Who he loves as he can despite his hearts flaws

And the woman his wife sees the shadows in his eyes

And waits each night for him to speak ‘ere sunrise

But each night he is stoic and silent once more

And she loves him as is but hopes for yet more

And the man he wakes in darkness at one

With the earth hard and icy and far from the sun

And he hears a creak on the stair and see’s a child of his own

Stepping in her sleep to go away from his home

He leaps from the bed and snatches his axe

As his girl steps out side leaving bare footed tracks

He shouts her name but she yet does not hear

Just walks away surefooted and into his fear

He pressed into the wind that she does not feel

And slips and trips on the ice at his heal

She draws away as he screams for her to wake

Past the boundary and the farm and the old rusted gate

He staggers and weaves and screams to the night

Please let his girl be alive and alright

And in a shaft of the moonlight he sees now revealed

The scarecrow there waiting no longer concealed.

Colossal, eight legged, with its body hunched low

Its many eyes all ablaze with hatred to sow

Under its body are gathered webbed sack like pearls

Each sack containing bodies of the gone away girls

The scarecrow was hunched like a predator hunting

Straw mouth and straw throat growling and grunting

The boy now a man now a father stood resolved

And called to the daughter his heart longed to hold

And the village behind him finally awoke

Lit torches as remorse and denial finally broke

They surged to the field and the man with the axe

And the girl walking closer to the loss and the black

And with his village now with him the mans bravery grew

And he stepped to the creature as a bitter wind blew

The eyes of insanity and night and despair

Met the eyes of a father filled only with care

The man raised his axe and the scarecrow raised limbs

And the axe swung wide as the creature roared at him

And the daughter she stopped and turned to her Dad

Seeing him enraged and frightened and screaming and mad

And she looked to the sacks so close now to hand

She blinked her eyes clear and could now understand

It was on the town’s grief that this the creature it fed

Not on the girls gone away and long believed dead

She could see through the webbing to the girls inside

Breathing so slowly these white webbing dressed brides

And she turned to her father and hoped that he knew

That though her action was reckless it was meant pure and true

And screaming he saw her dive to the sacks down beneath

And he screamed out her name to the girl out of reach

“No” he screamed louder as she vanished from sight

And the creatures foul snapped wildly to bite

He screamed out again now pinned where he lay

Seeing the night darken to black from cold gray

And the creature it turned and sought the girl beneath

Howling and roaring in pained disbelief

As sack after sack was swift torn away

The girl rolled and stood and turned then to say:

“No more”

And the villagers surged forward with flame and with might

And clove and slashed and burnt this creature from night

And the scarecrow, the spider, it howled and it hissed

Surging and stamping and slashing to resist

The girl saw her father and took up his axe

And charged at the scarecrow with relentless attack

The scarecrow was shrinking and bleeding and afraid

Its stature diminished as the girls were dragged away

It was hissing and stamping with fear in its poise

And the man now a father became once more just a boy

Only this time fear would be routed and the nights would be shorter

The boy stood and took the axe the axe from his daughter

And the blows rained and splintered and severed

And the scarecrow crumpled and bled into forever

And the daughter saw her father the brave hearted man

Saw his leg pulsing blood and he unable to stand

And the girls gone away now returned found arms

As their parents ran screaming from their houses and farms

Each girl had not aged and looked just as they’d been

Each blinked and stretched now delivered from dreams

Each held to sobbing parents and received kisses and tears

As each was returned from their families worst fears

And the father, the man, the boy collapsed dead away

With a bite in his leg scorching flesh grey

His daughter she kissed him and felt skin turn ice

And she turned to her mother and sister that night

They wept together over their now dying man

Holding his loved head and both of his coarse hands

And he blinked one and saw his wife and his girls

And he coughed and he whispered “You are my world”

Then breath ceased and life flickered still

And the sun rose unknowing as always it will

And the night frost abated and melted to water

And the wife walked back home with both of her daughters

And their husband and father they never forgot

They never buried his memories or let thoughts of him stop

And often remembered the night he had fought

And the days he had toiled and all that he’d taught

And the grief they kept and turned into more

As they spoke of him with love ever perfect and pure

The scarecrow the spider was gone into the flame

The grass burnt beneath was never the same

It stayed grey and diseased where nothing now grew

So the villagers encircled it with fencing as each of them knew

That grief has a home that must be respected

And that grief, though painful, must stay connected

Grief and loss so easily swallow us whole

Tear at our world and leave punctures and holes

Grief chews and it gnaws and it bruises and pains

Takes everything clean and leaves it bitter and stained

But grief is a product of love and of joy

Of childish wonder that nothing ever can destroy

The memories of all things are with us still

As always they have been and always they will

And those that we’ve lost who we’ve loved and adored

Should never be closed off and sealed behind doors

But spoken of and shared whenever the times right

Appreciated and venerated and kept in plain sight

Turning from lost love only feeds savage beast

And talking and loving are the souls own release

So if to anyone “I love you” you have said

Then that person’s memory will never be dead

So the boy now a man now a father now dead

Was held to the light with his name often said

And the children of the village were told of this tale

That love and not fear should always prevail

And the daughter she grew and had children of her own

All loved and held close until she lay under stone

But her children and grandchildren held her memory plain

Because even in death loves purity remains

O'Toole Tells Tales

The house lay forgotten at the end of the road

Where no children, no pets or postman would go

The windows were broken and the doors creaked on rust

And the carpets were carpeted in layers of dust

Whoever had lived there was long lost today

Whoever had lived there, well no one could say

Then one morning a van trundled by

Stopping beneath a perfect blue sky

And movers moved swiftly with boxes and chairs

Each shivering faintly at forgotten nightmares

They worked as quickly as working men could

And unloaded the truck onto bare boards of wood

The neighbourly people wondered and frowned

As word spread through every café in town

Someone had bought that house long forgotten

Where dust coughed and spluttered and all things lay rotten

Someone was coming quite soon to move in

Who could it be? Was it a her? Or a him?

The answer came shortly as a red car arrived

With its owner slow stretching from his long lonely drive

A man it was, a man named O’Toole

Who up until recently had head-mastered a school

O’Toole was a man with no child or wife

Who’d worked every day and called it a life

O’Toole was a barrel chested man of age sixty-four

Who had woken one morning and decided “no more”

He abandoned his one bedroom house in the city

And decided to move somewhere both quiet and pretty

And after two weeks of searching he knew what to do

He’d buy an old house and make it brand new

And now here he stood on this perfect blue day

Looking at abandonment, loss and decay

He rolled up his sleeves and picked up his tools

And unloaded planks and wire in spools

Inside the yard where the grass grew dry and thin

He gazed at the house and eyes gazed back at him

That first day he threw open all of the doors

And with a new broom he swept the old floors

Explosions of dust burst in clouds from the house

Triggering sneezes from a rat, cat and mouse

He swept and he swept ‘til the dust was all gone

“I’ll have this house new” he thought “before long”

That night he slept on the bed that he’d bought

Dreaming of classes that he’d recently taught

Around him the old house creaked and adjusted

To being clean swept and so thoroughly dusted

And up in the attic deep in the night

Six pairs of eyes blinked and turned left to right

The eyes belonged to children unknown and unfed

As these were children who were sadly long dead

These were children who’d had short lives of no care

And who one cold bitter winter had been abandoned right there

They’d died early that winter with the saddest belief

That the saddest of lives garner no ounce of relief

The six children, half girls and half boys

Remained in the house and spun dust into toys

As the windows cracked and the garden overgrew

The children continued and the world never knew

They stayed at their ages, from two up to twelve

The youngest the boys and the oldest the girls

The next morning O’Toole awoke and exclaimed

“Today that garden will bloom once again”

He breakfasted on coffee and sausage and eggs

Chewing each mouthful and drinking to dregs

And as he was about to take a shovel and set to his work

He saw that his home again sunken in dirt

He frowned and he pondered and picked up his broom

And chased away dust again from each buried room

Had it blown in at midnight from the garden outside?

Swirling and whirling as he dreamed safe inside?

He swept and he swept and then placed glass in frames

Of the windows so to stop this occurring again

That night he dreamed of classes once more

Reading stories to children sat on the floor

And as he slept three boys age two, four and six

Whipped up a perfect dust and dirt mix

And three girls age twelve, eight and ten

Spread candy floss clouds of dust out again

So the next day was filled with dusty disdain

O’Toole swept and swept and swept yet again

And later that afternoon he repaired every door

And sealed them all fast and firm to be sure

With everything closed and the dust chased away

O’Toole, with satisfaction, called it a day

But that night instead of retreating to sleep

O’Toole read his book and heard the house creak

And for reasons, if asked, he could never explain

O’Toole cleared his throat and strongly exclaimed

“Marley was dead, to begin with”

and heard the house gasp

As six long dead children heard someone reading at last

O’Toole read A Christmas Carol from commencement to end

Then yawned and sighed and slumbered again

And the children from the attic thrilled and imagined

The ghosts and the characters Charles Dickens had fashioned

And the dust that each night regathered

No longer came in and no longer mattered

O’Toole the next day sandpapered the floors

Sandpapered the walls and sandpapered the doors

He prepared the surfaces and started to paint

In shades blue and of yellow he felt were quaint

That night he lit a fire in the main room downstairs

And settled himself in an old leather chair

He opened a new book and once more read

To his invisible audience of children long dead

He read of Hobbits and a dragon named Smaug

Reading each page luxuriantly loud

And as the tale ended and he fell to his ease

The children stayed with him, unable to leave

O’Toole dreamt that night of the wife he’d not found

Since his only true love had been placed underground

She’d died aged just twenty in a lake in the spring

A lake where O’Toole was to propose with a ring

He’d come back to the world broken and shattered

As without his one love whatever else mattered?

He lay in his torpor bereft and unclaimed

Hating himself and gathering blame

He thought of her dreams and made them his own

And he realised a future his true love had shown

A teacher and wife she had hoped to be

“So a wifeless teacher is what comes for me”

The house was painted when he woke from his pain

Softly crying Pippa, that long cherished name

He blinked away tears as he wandered his home

Heart broken and lonely but yet not alone

For right before him at the foot of the stair

A two-year-old boy picked his nose there

O’Toole crouched down and looked at the boy

Who smiled right back with unrestrained joy

He ran to the books piled up on the floor

Clapped with his hands and waved to the door

Shortly thereafter he threw one to O’Toole

Who sat on the floor and knew what to do

The two year old listened enrapt at the tale

Of a beautiful white uncatchable whale

And his sisters and brothers unseen at the door

Listened to each word still starving for more

The house was ignored as the day turned to dusk

And the boy fell to sleep as two year olds must

And now O’Toole’s thoughts turned to the Police

To those in authority to whom he must speak

And he rose and went for his phone now to find

When something occurred that altered his mind

Outside the room five children all stared

Nervous and hopeful and spikey of hair

The eldest girl related their sad sorry tale

And hearing O’Toole turned uncomfortably pale

As she spoke of starvation and a cold desperate death

O’Toole saw a puff of his own frozen breath

“And then you came and our home wasn’t dark”

And O’Toole found warmth spread in his heart

The next day the children were eagerly waiting

To see where a new day may take them

Where they had been fleshless and boneless and gone

Now they were vibrant and laughing in song

Their memories of death fast faded from mind

Until memories of this morning were all they could find

O’Toole as well found his memories were hazed

And it never occurred to him that life may be crazed

He worked on the house with his family of six

Painting and plastering and gathering sticks

Till the house was perfect but yet not complete

The walls all a glow with the rooms warm and neat

One evening O’Toole sat in front of the flames

Reading The Iron Man to the children again

None of them flinched as the front door swung wide

And Pippa softly stepped from the out to inside

She kissed O’Toole as his story he paused

And the children, delighted, burst into applause

Pippa smiled and whispered “I do”

And O’Toole gazed and said “I love you”

Pippa sat on the arm of the chair

As the fire crackled and the children all stared

“Read” she whispered and O’Toole softly started

Feeling warm and alive and not broken hearted

There is no greater love than love that’s well read

With each night “story time” being words that are said

Children grow fast and soon read alone

In the forest of tales their parents have grown

O’Toole never knew he had long passed away

He just read to his children, and his wife, every day

The house was forgotten by all still alive

And no one ever sought to peer deep inside

No one that was but children long lost

Who’d been too much a burden or too much a cost

They gazed through the windows and came through the doors

And found safety, found warmth and stories…..evermore