Rolling her eyes, she descended into the basement, mumbling her annoyance at her husband. ‘Roscoe, I’ve been—’
Her words faltered at the sight. Her heart tripped up and her legs weakened. She reached out and grabbed the newel post to stop herself from collapsing. Her mind began to shut down and her breathing became shallow, rasping.
She wanted to shout his name, call for help, but she barely had enough air to breathe.
Painfully slowly, she edged her way closer to him, all the while struggling to pull oxygen in and out of her aching body.
She stopped and looked at him. He was floating in mid-air, his black shoes—impeccably shiny—a good three feet off the ground. A high-backed chair was lying on the floor behind him. His face was an odd shade of purple, like a grape. His eyes looked swollen and bulbous. A pocket of chin fat was squished between his lower jaw and the thick sausage of rope that was wrapped around his neck.
She took his left hand in hers —crimson and tepid—and a strange calmness filtered through her—as if flowing from her husband’s lifeless body. ‘Oh, Roscoe,’ she sobbed. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? It was Jack’s fault—that much was absolutely certain. He had somehow managed to break through the invisible wall to the past that she and Roscoe had put up twenty-six years ago when they had fled California, leaving their old lives behind. She thought back over the long road that had taken them from California to Massachusetts. It had begun with four months of acute nervousness in a small town in Kansas, where they had barely left their rented accommodation. Then had followed seven months in a godforsaken town in Ohio, where they had begun tentatively to engage in a normal life. But caution had moved them on to a spell in Pennsylvania. There, they had lived an anonymous city life, slipping in and, ten months later, back out unnoticed. It was upon reaching Massachusetts that Joseph had finally relaxed into his new name of Roscoe and the past was no longer discussed nor feared. Even the wedding had proceeded with ignorance of the past; it wasn’t bigamy because they were different people. Audrey’s name was never mentioned again until that damned private investigator had tracked them down. But that had been dealt with and their lives had continued. Until now. Until Jack had taken it upon himself to ruin everything.
Velda squeezed her husband’s hand and vowed to keep what remained of the truth hidden; she knew what she had to do next.
Letting his hand drop into a gentle sway, she turned to face the bank of tools fixed to one wall. Crowbars. Hammers. Screw-drivers. Pliers. Every type of washer, nail and screw known to man. Saws. Velda reached up and lifted one of the bright steel blades down from its hooks. Standing on the chair behind him, she sunk the saw’s razor-like teeth into the rope and began to cut.
With each forward motion of the saw, Roscoe’s limp body swayed—an unnatural and gruesome ethereal dance.
Velda persisted without pause until Roscoe wilted to the floor like a released marionette puppet.
She unwrapped the rope from around his neck and tossed it to one side. She kissed his cool cheek, then headed for the stairs. Taking one final glance back, she switched off the light, pulled the door closed and made her way back upstairs. As she crossed to the kitchen, she was greeted by the opening bars of Bing Crosby singing Silent Night.
Velda opened one of the cupboards, her eyes scanning among the bowls and saucepans in front of her. There! She found what she was looking for—a large jug, which she proceeded to fill under the tap.
Water lapped at the edges of the jug as she walked, tiny puddles on the floor demarking her path into the sitting room.
The clock in the hallway struck seven.
‘…Sleep in heavenly peace…’ Velda found herself singing along, as she began to liberally douse the baseboard of the Christmas tree until the electrics began to fizz. ‘…Sleep in heavenly peace…’
Something clicked at the bottom of the tree, followed by a hissing that sounded like a Catherine wheel firework in full spin, making Velda jump back.
Then, flames. Small, smokeless and inquisitive, they reached up and nibbled at the edge of one of the Christmas presents. A camera for Roscoe, if Velda remembered correctly. The flames became more daring and wrapped themselves around the gift, licking up to the one sitting above it.
Velda felt an increasing warmth at her feet, as the flames touched the base of the tree, momentarily shrivelling the needles into black spikes before reducing them to nothing.
The heat pushed Velda a few paces back. The whole tree was now alight and smoke began to curl across the ceiling. All the presents were burning. The flames were now just inches from the thick curtains.
Humming along to the final bars of Silent Night, Velda turned and left the living room, closing the door behind her, then made her way up to her bedroom. As she passed Alice’s room, she could hear them still talking—more loudly this time. Their voices were energised, happy.
Sitting on her bed, she waited.
It took four minutes before the record player gave up playing Christmas songs.
Another five minutes until the sounds of the fire tearing through the ground floor reached her ears. Snapping, breaking and devouring. The stench of smoke began to get stronger and more acrid.
It was time.
Velda stood up and entered the hallway. The fire had reached the front door and was stretching long red fingers through the banister rails.
She screamed loudly. ‘Alice! Jack!’ Another scream and Alice’s bedroom door flew open.
‘What?’ Alice began, before the raging inferno at the bottom of the stairs caught her attention.
‘We’ve got to get out—quick!’ Velda shouted.
‘Where’s Dad?’
