The Scribbler, Iain Maitland [inspirational books TXT] 📗

He looked back at her, thinking, taking it all in, making sense of her words. He seemed confused. The talk of hands.

“Mickey Mouse,” she said. “You know Mickey Mouse?”

“Yes,” he nodded, “Mickey Mouse lives with his dog Pluto in a nice house. His …” he smiled shyly, “… girlfriend is Minnie Mouse. She’s pretty.”

“That’s right and his watch is yours if you’d like it. Just cut me loose and I can go and get it for you later … when your brother falls asleep.”

A long silence. She was sure he was about to move forward to untie her hands. He was that close.

But then she saw the slow brother’s face cloud over with sudden uncertainty and doubt.

She knew it was too late, and why, before she heard the harsh voice.

“No one’s going to any birthday party … not him anyway … and you’re not getting yourself untied. You’re staying put,” the smart brother said brusquely, taking the stairs two at a time.

“And he doesn’t need to know the time,” he added, checking the back window. “He gets up at seven and has breakfast. Dinner’s at one o’clock, tea at six and supper at nine. He goes to bed at ten o’clock. That’s all he needs to know.”

He went to the front window, “We’re all just going to sit here nice and quiet and wait for Mother. Until it’s light. He doesn’t need a Mickey Mouse watch to tell him when the sun’s coming up.”

Carrie glanced at the smart brother and then away from this hard and dismissive man. Unfeeling.

Then she saw the look on the slow brother’s face. Anger, plain and simple anger. That he couldn’t go to the party nor have the watch or be taught all of the different times.

She wondered what might happen if this simple man worked himself into a rage. And whether that might be enough for him to turn on his brother. She knew she had to try before daybreak.

* * *

It seemed to be on the hour and half-hour. Over and again. As regular as clockwork.

That the woman with the megaphone shouted out. To be shown Carrie. To check she was okay.

The smart brother dragging her up. Shouted exchanges. Carrie was safe. All was well. Mother was coming. Not long now. And then sat back down again until next time.

These insistent checks.

And ragged sleeps.

In between each round of shouting.

“So,” Carrie asked, looking at the smart brother and thinking what to say, how to begin, “your mother comes here when the sun comes up. You exchange her for me and then the three of you are left here in the barn together?”

The smart brother looked up and nodded, yes, that’s about it.

“And then the police go away and leave you to live happily ever after,” Carrie sighed dramatically. She knew she was playing a difficult game. But it was one she had to try.

“No,” the smart brother answered. “We just want to be together again, that’s all.”

“Mother and her best boys,” the slow brother chipped in. “Together forever, never to—”

“The three of us together here in our home,” the smart brother interrupted. “Mother loves her home. She has lived here all her life. She wants to die here. And she will. Because we love her.”

Carrie nodded, working through possibilities in her mind.

Deciding which way to go.

To pitch brother against brother.

“If your mother loves her home so much, why did you want to put her away in a care home?”

She looked at the smart brother. He held her gaze and then looked aside, thinking how to answer. The slow brother looked at him, too, a worried expression on his face.

The smart brother sighed suddenly, unexpectedly. A vulnerability. A weakness. Something Carrie could maybe exploit.

“We thought it was for the best. It was a mistake,” he said, starting slowly, before clearing his throat and carrying on. “Mother has not been well for a while. She has had falls when we have been out. She hurt her arm. And her face was bruised another time. Like Father had …” he stumbled to a halt.

“And she burned herself,” the slow brother added carefully. “On the oven.”

“Have you called the doctor … an ambulance?”

The smart brother turned his head. “No. We take care of ourselves. We don’t want people here in the farmhouse … snooping about. Mother would not like that. But she cannot really manage on her own unless one of us is here to watch her. Not for long anyway.”

Carrie nodded. She pressed on.

“So, you went to the care home to see about putting her away.”

The smart brother breathed in deeply. Searched for words, explanations.

“Mother has … times of confusion and she had … has … become incontinent on occasion. We did not think she would want her best boys to—”

“We are Mother’s best boys,” the slow brother interrupted, “and we would do anything for Mother and Mother would do anything for us. Say it, Ronnie, say it.”

“We love Mother and …”

They joined in together, “… Mother loves us.”

A second’s silence.

Carrie sensed emotions, something akin to love, from the two brothers as they stopped and did not seem to know what else to say. She recognised that two late-middle-aged men changing their elderly mother’s soiled underwear and clothes would be difficult for them all; probably unbearable for the mother.

She waited. And then the smart brother went on.

“So, I went to, all over the place, it must have been four or five care homes. Just to talk. Get help. There are different sorts. I did not know. And they are expensive. We could not afford any of them. Not one.”

“Mother was angry,” the slow brother said. “She said to us, how dare you, she said, how dare you.” He spoke the words as if he had learned them word-by-word, like they were somehow deep in his heart. “This is my home and you are my boys, my best boys, and we will all live here together until the day we die.”

“And so we said we were wrong and