Black soul rose by John Jones... - HTML preview

Glenn

102

The house seemed empty, but he knew it wasn’t. His mother would probably be out the back tending to the garden, and he was right, There she was trimming back flower stems. She tended to garden a lot, even when nothing much needed doing. She saw it as a form of therapy.

He leaned against the door frame, and she looked up at him, then carried on.

“If you dig a hole, you can throw yourself in,” Glenn said. Gwenda looked up, surprised.

“Glenn, that’s not a very nice thing to say is it?”

“Just a thought, because I know sometimes you get like that. That’s why you’re on medication aren’t you? Stops you doing yourself in. Well if you’d rather not be here, just kill yourself. I’ll fill in the grave if you like. We have a spade don’t we? somewhere” he said, looking around for a spade.

“Glenn!” she said, loudly.

“Just some irony,” he said, “taking your mind off depression by talking about it.

Strange eh?” he said, then walked back into the kitchen and located the bottle of Thorazine beneath the sink, amongst spray bottles and cloths. He also took a small knife for when they bought the cake.

He didn’t care if she knew he’d taken it. He would just say he was doing her a favour by trying to take her off it. He was just looking out for her, which is a lot more than what she did for him.

The ’new’ Glenn knew that by taking the Thorazine, withdrawal may bring to the surface more depressive behaviour.

He didn’t care however, and left the house.

Meeting up with Chantelle and Boyd, they had to walk a while to the next town, through a caravan park, and past a university. They had found the furniture polish and bought a little birthday cake, and soon found themselves outside a small row of shops where there was a large paved area featuring large wooden flower-bed boxes and two weather-beaten benches which were unoccupied, until Chantelle and Glenn sat down with the goods between them, and Boyd stood as a kind of lookout.

103

There were not many people around, and those that were paid the children barely any attention as they passed by. Some children gathered around a chocolate cake was of no interest to anyone.

“Alright,” said Boyd, “Chantelle, I think you know what you’re doing”. With the cake, the bottle of Thorazine, the furniture polish and knife, Chantelle sprayed the cake with the polish.

“No,” said Boyd, “cut it into two slices first. The poison ones, and we could have eaten the rest. You’ve just wasted a whole cake”.

“Well it’s probably a good thing,” Chantelle said, “you know, weight-watching or whatever. Now keep a lookout”. She sprayed the cake vigorously, then picked up the Thorazine and smiled when she realised it had a child-proof cap.

“Child-proof cap,” she said, “take one teaspoon per day. Do not exceed dose.

Oh well, I’ll pour as much as I can on, because this will have a taste to it, but should fade before it’s eaten”. She sliced the cake to pour over the rest of the bottle, eight teaspoons worth, then cut it into two slices for Boyd to take back.

The rest of the cake was thrown into a flower-bed where two seagulls came out of nowhere and swooped on it.

“Let’s go,” said Chantelle, “there may be a few dead seagulls laying around soon,” and they all headed home.

It was around an hour later when Boyd was sat at the table finishing off his tea.

They usually enjoyed dessert for afters so Boyd timed it to when they would clear away the dishes and take out the raspberry trifle.

“Can’t wait for Australia,” he said, tucking into his salmon trout. “I told them at school and they were happy for me”.

“Ah that’s nice,” said Barbara. Boyd then left the table and went to the sink to retrieve two saucers, then went out into the hall to his rucksack where he retrieved the cake slices from the crumpled cake-box. He returned, proffering them forth.

104

“The teacher said it would be a good idea to make a goodbye chocolate cake”.

The slices had been so man-handled by this time they genuinely looked like they could have been made in a classroom.

He presented them to his parents.

“This is from everyone in the school. Made specially”.

“This is amazing,” said Neale, the type of parent that always said what his child did was ‘amazing’. You’ve drawn a picture of a stick-man, that’s amazing. You ate everything on the plate, that’s amazing. You scored a goal in the school field, that’s amazing.

“I think I’ll save mine for later,” said Barbara. Boyd’s eyes widened.

“No,” he said, “we made it at school specially for you. Eat it now while it’s there”. His parents looked at each other as if to say ‘Alright, let’s appease him’.

Neither of them really ate chocolate, as they were concerned over the ingredients and its effects on health and weight, but indulged occasionally.

“Alright,” said his father, and tucked into it. His mother somewhat reluctantly, ate the slice in small bits. It was clear neither of them really wanted it, but to show willing, they indulged.

“This is amazing,” his father said, “will you thank the class for me?”

“Absolutely” said Boyd, sitting back on the chair and folding his arms.

He watched them both clear up the slices, and wondered if what Chantelle had told him was right, that it should take about ten minutes to have an effect. They also had their regular, more preferred dessert of trifles, and tucked into his while he waited. If nothing happened, then there would be no consequences. Back to square one.

“So what are you looking forward to in Australia?” Barbara asked. “Ooh hold on, I feel dizzy”. Neale then started to twitch, and twitch, and twitch.

“What the..?” he said.

“Nothing,” said Boyd, “I just want to watch you both fucking die. I’m not going to Australia”. Before the symptoms took stranglehold, his parents looked wide-eyed at Boyd who just smiled as he watched them spasm and choke.

Convulsions took over and Neale collapsed to the floor choking with seizures.

Barbara stood and fell onto the table, trembling, convulsing, muscles seizing up, trying to breathe as if her very lifeforce was being dragged out of her body. Her face was a twisted grimace, her jaw two inches to the left of where it should be.

105

Neale’s mouth was open much wider, locked into position. Both dead in a rigor mortis grimace.

“Fuck,” Boyd muttered. He wished he had taken notes.