Horseshoe Bend, page 2
I look through some of my old payslips from the gas board, then tear them up along with some fuel bills and receipts.
“Council Tax” Mary says, sliding the invoice to me.
I take a quick glance and tear it up. The bag is almost full when we finish with the paperwork.
“That felt good,” Mary says.
“It’s amazing how much junk you collect over the years.”
“I know,” Mary says. “Shall we go for a walk?”
We sit on a wooden bench, looking out to sea, the sky almost dark, the sun a cold orange disk balancing on the horizon. To the south, the pier at Saltburn stretches out into the waves.
We light our cigarettes and I watch as Mary exhales, staring at the smoke.
“I’d forgotten what these things tasted like,” she says.
When I first inhale it almost makes me cough. “It’s been a long time.”
“Seventeen years, I think.”
“Closer to twenty for me,” I say. “And they are so expensive now.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter anymore…”
I turn her towards me, looking into her green eyes.
“No tears today, love,” I say. “That’s what we agreed.”
She nods and says, “I know.”
We finish our cigarettes in silence, then we reminisce about our childhoods.
“We were the first in our street to get a vacuum cleaner,” she says. “I must have been about fifteen at the time.”
“I remember the first washing machine we had. You should have heard the bloody noise it made.”
“Ha-ha. Happy times.”
“It was,” I say. “Better times.”
“Things were so much different then,” she says.
“Simpler.”
“And safer.”
She rests her head on my shoulder.
“We used to play out on the road,” I say. “No cars.”
“And you could leave the doors unlocked at night without worrying.”
I watch a seagull, as it picks at a paper coffee cup on the grass.
“And then we got older,” Mary says.
“Well,” I say. “I can’t complain.”
“We did OK.”
“We did more than OK, love.”
She lifts her head and smiles at me, saying, “We did, didn’t we?”
Last night we had dinner with David and Becky at their house. It was my 70th birthday, so after eating we chatted and drank a few glasses of wine.
When we left we gave them big hugs and kisses, and told them that we loved them very much.
“Dad - you and mum are acting very weird tonight,” David said.
“We’re fine,” I said, while Mary put on her jacket, pretending not to hear him.
“What are you thinking about?” Mary asks, cutting into her steak.
“Nothing much,” I say. I add some butter to my baked potato. “Just last night.”
“David and Becky?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s lovely, but she’s not much of a cook.”
“Well, David seems happy,” I say.
She steps into the kitchen and returns with a salt cellar, sprinkling some on her food.
“He’ll be OK, won’t he?” she says. “He’ll understand?”
“I think so. We’ve explained it all in the note.”
“He won’t blame himself?”
I sip some water and shake my head. “No. He’ll realise this was best for everyone.”
“Will he?”
“Yeah, I think he will. Eventually.”
She puts down her fork and says, “And he’ll understand why we couldn’t tell him?”
“Yes, love, it’s all in the note. He’ll understand.”
“I hope so. I just don’t want to go through all the pain, the treatments, losing my hair…”
“We both think the same, Mary,” I say. “It’s all in the note.”
“OK.” She laughs nervously. “I’m just being silly, I know.”
“No, not at all,” I say, holding her hand. “If you’re having second thoughts about this…”
She thinks about it.
“No. I think it’s for the best.”
“Are you sure?”
She tries to smile. “I’m sure,” she says.
After dinner we sit in the conservatory and smoke another cigarette.
When we’re finished, Mary says, “Right, I’ll make sure the windows are closed.”
After locking the back door I go to our bedroom, take the canisters from the wardrobe and place one on the floor, either side of the bed.
We sit at the kitchen table, re-reading our note.
“I think it’s finished,” Mary says. “Right?”
“Yes, that’s everything.”
I fold the note and place it in a white envelope, writing David’s name on the front.
Mary’s handwriting is a lot better than mine, so she writes the sign. She uses a black marker pen on a piece of cardboard, about the same size as A4 paper.
She puts the cap on the pen and turns the sign towards me.
“How does that look?”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll put it by the front door.”
She stands up and runs her hand through her hair. “What now?”
“Go and have a lie down, love, and I’ll be in shortly.”
I place the sign on a chair facing the front door, so that it will be seen by whoever comes in.
The sign reads: Danger. Do not enter. We’ve committed suicide using poisonous gas.
Now I’ll go and join Mary.
Thanks for reading!
I hope you enjoyed my stories.
Please feel free to review this book on Amazon, and let me know your thoughts.
Until next time.
Glenn McGoldrick.
If you liked reading these stories, then you might like this collection in the Dark Teesside series:
UK: http://amzn.to/2zEikJp
US: http://amzn.to/2hjfrpL
Glenn McGoldrick, Horseshoe Bend
Thank you for reading books on ReadFrom.Net
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“Council Tax” Mary says, sliding the invoice to me.
I take a quick glance and tear it up. The bag is almost full when we finish with the paperwork.
“That felt good,” Mary says.
“It’s amazing how much junk you collect over the years.”
“I know,” Mary says. “Shall we go for a walk?”
We sit on a wooden bench, looking out to sea, the sky almost dark, the sun a cold orange disk balancing on the horizon. To the south, the pier at Saltburn stretches out into the waves.
We light our cigarettes and I watch as Mary exhales, staring at the smoke.
“I’d forgotten what these things tasted like,” she says.
When I first inhale it almost makes me cough. “It’s been a long time.”
“Seventeen years, I think.”
“Closer to twenty for me,” I say. “And they are so expensive now.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter anymore…”
I turn her towards me, looking into her green eyes.
“No tears today, love,” I say. “That’s what we agreed.”
She nods and says, “I know.”
We finish our cigarettes in silence, then we reminisce about our childhoods.
“We were the first in our street to get a vacuum cleaner,” she says. “I must have been about fifteen at the time.”
“I remember the first washing machine we had. You should have heard the bloody noise it made.”
“Ha-ha. Happy times.”
“It was,” I say. “Better times.”
“Things were so much different then,” she says.
“Simpler.”
“And safer.”
She rests her head on my shoulder.
“We used to play out on the road,” I say. “No cars.”
“And you could leave the doors unlocked at night without worrying.”
I watch a seagull, as it picks at a paper coffee cup on the grass.
“And then we got older,” Mary says.
“Well,” I say. “I can’t complain.”
“We did OK.”
“We did more than OK, love.”
She lifts her head and smiles at me, saying, “We did, didn’t we?”
Last night we had dinner with David and Becky at their house. It was my 70th birthday, so after eating we chatted and drank a few glasses of wine.
When we left we gave them big hugs and kisses, and told them that we loved them very much.
“Dad - you and mum are acting very weird tonight,” David said.
“We’re fine,” I said, while Mary put on her jacket, pretending not to hear him.
“What are you thinking about?” Mary asks, cutting into her steak.
“Nothing much,” I say. I add some butter to my baked potato. “Just last night.”
“David and Becky?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s lovely, but she’s not much of a cook.”
“Well, David seems happy,” I say.
She steps into the kitchen and returns with a salt cellar, sprinkling some on her food.
“He’ll be OK, won’t he?” she says. “He’ll understand?”
“I think so. We’ve explained it all in the note.”
“He won’t blame himself?”
I sip some water and shake my head. “No. He’ll realise this was best for everyone.”
“Will he?”
“Yeah, I think he will. Eventually.”
She puts down her fork and says, “And he’ll understand why we couldn’t tell him?”
“Yes, love, it’s all in the note. He’ll understand.”
“I hope so. I just don’t want to go through all the pain, the treatments, losing my hair…”
“We both think the same, Mary,” I say. “It’s all in the note.”
“OK.” She laughs nervously. “I’m just being silly, I know.”
“No, not at all,” I say, holding her hand. “If you’re having second thoughts about this…”
She thinks about it.
“No. I think it’s for the best.”
“Are you sure?”
She tries to smile. “I’m sure,” she says.
After dinner we sit in the conservatory and smoke another cigarette.
When we’re finished, Mary says, “Right, I’ll make sure the windows are closed.”
After locking the back door I go to our bedroom, take the canisters from the wardrobe and place one on the floor, either side of the bed.
We sit at the kitchen table, re-reading our note.
“I think it’s finished,” Mary says. “Right?”
“Yes, that’s everything.”
I fold the note and place it in a white envelope, writing David’s name on the front.
Mary’s handwriting is a lot better than mine, so she writes the sign. She uses a black marker pen on a piece of cardboard, about the same size as A4 paper.
She puts the cap on the pen and turns the sign towards me.
“How does that look?”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll put it by the front door.”
She stands up and runs her hand through her hair. “What now?”
“Go and have a lie down, love, and I’ll be in shortly.”
I place the sign on a chair facing the front door, so that it will be seen by whoever comes in.
The sign reads: Danger. Do not enter. We’ve committed suicide using poisonous gas.
Now I’ll go and join Mary.
Thanks for reading!
I hope you enjoyed my stories.
Please feel free to review this book on Amazon, and let me know your thoughts.
Until next time.
Glenn McGoldrick.
If you liked reading these stories, then you might like this collection in the Dark Teesside series:
UK: http://amzn.to/2zEikJp
US: http://amzn.to/2hjfrpL
Glenn McGoldrick, Horseshoe Bend
