Free Red House Blues by sallie tierney Page B

discharge from a
cumulous cloud could be called an intelligence. Whatever its
genesis, whether chemical reaction or some supernatural confluence,
it existed because it existed in that particular place, within each
cell and dust mote of the house on Fir Street. It functioned as it
had always functioned from its inception and would always
function.
    But Martin Childers knew nothing of this.
Had he had an inkling of it he would have passed it off as the
inevitable consequences of a night drinking up what little money he
was able to pry from his wife. Or the onset of madness. For what
else could he think but that he had gone crazy to do what he had
done?
    It must have been two or three in the
morning, he didn’t know. How long had he been sitting there? His
hands were still shaking. The dark smears down the sink were dry.
He got up, pulled the damask tablecloth from the ironing board and
placed it over Rosemary’s ruined face. Even as he did it he knew it
was a silly thing to do. But he couldn’t have her staring up at him
like that. Didn’t want her seen like that when they came and found
her.
    He went through the dining room and up the
stairs to their bedroom off the first landing. There, he pulled the
bedding off the bed and tore a sheet into strips. He knew knots.
Hadn’t he put in his share of work with the fishing fleet when he
first came to town? Back when there was a fishing fleet worth the
name. Seemed like so long ago. Always a handy thing to know, knots.
Who would have thought he still remembered. Never know when
something a man learns will come in handy. His hands were not
shaking quite so much now.
    He went back to the landing and tied things
up good and tight, admiring anew how well the old house was built.
They built to last in those days. Whoever put this thing together,
really knew what he was doing, he thought. Then when everything was
in place Martin climbed over the glossy walnut banister and let
go.
     
     

Chapter 9
     
    Her bunkmates at the Sea Turtle were
eighteen-year-olds on the German equivalent of senior trip, intent
on turning the entire night into one Wagnerian slumber party,
complete with smuggled beer. Suzan was outnumbered and feeling like
an ancient shipwreck. After pleading for quiet until her voice gave
out she gathered up pillow and blankets and padded down the hall to
the bathroom. It didn’t look too comfortable but it was quieter.
She locked herself in one of the shower stalls, wrapped up in the
blankets and curled up on the damp tile floor.
    One of the sinks was dripping, providing a
sort of white noise over the residual racket from the Germans down
the hall. Why hadn’t she packed earplugs? One summer after high
school she traveled across Europe, staying in hostels, backpacking.
The trip was her graduation present from her father. The memories
she cherished were of romantic Roman evenings and lazy Parisian
mornings, illustrating the selective nature of memory. Only now,
too late, did she remember why she once swore she would never book
into a hostel ever, ever again.
    There was little chance of sleep. For one
thing the ceiling lights were on for the benefit of people
requiring late night trips to pee. And with the amount of beer the
Germans were putting away it was likely there would be a steady
parade to the toilets. Suzan hoped they were sufficiently hammered
not to notice her through the frosted glass of the shower stall.
The shower scene from Psycho sprang unpleasantly to mind. Still, if
the Germans ran screaming from the building, she would have her
bunk bed back. Which, compared to the shower stall, now seemed like
the ultimate in luxury.
    The clammy shower stall
smelled of mildew and bad drains. This is
insanity. I should be home in my own bed. And I would be, if I had
the sense of a gnat. What did this
mindless journey prove except that she had some sort of perverted
need to suffer? If Norman Bates showed up with cutlery at this
moment, would even that be enough? What was