Gifted

Nineteen years ago.

Charles DuPonte heard a tap on his blacked-out car window. Pressing the small button on the interior of his expensive car, the window slowly retracted. “Is it done?” he asked.

The man shook his head, rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin and mouth. He wasn’t entirely sure how to explain what had just happened. “Err, we have a problem, Sir.”

Charles’s lips formed a tight line. Breathing heavily through his nose he pulled hard on the door’s release. Exiting, he slammed it shut. Inhaling the cool night air, he adjusted the collar on his coat, looking towards the small cottage.

The cottage crouched low into the grassy embankment as though it was trying to hide. Through the darkness, he could see the harsh, unevenly sized grey stones that made up the walls. As he walked towards it, the occasional flash of colour – some blues, others green or brown emerged from the grey stones that looked like eyes trying to see into his soul.

Sighing, the gravel crunched underfoot as he approached the quaint wooden front door. He turned the handle and pushed it open, lowering his head, he stepped inside. The only light in the small room was provided by a Laura Ashley table lamp and it was the only item of furniture still intact as the rest of the room was a heap of chaos and destruction. Almost as if a tornado had torn through the heart of it, breaking everything in its wake.

His attention was drawn to the blood-splattered walls. Lowering his gaze, they dropped to the floor to see a small pale hand decorated with a simple wedding band from behind an upturned sofa.

He strode towards it and with one hand pushed it out of the way to reveal the rest of the dead woman. A tightness clutched his chest. “Was it quick?”

The man stood at the doorway rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes Sir, she didn’t beg for her life, only for the life of her child.”

“And the male?” he looked around the room but couldn’t see the body of her mutt of her husband.

“Kitchen, Sir. We killed him as per your instruction, put up quite a fight.”

Charles lowered himself bracketing his arms on his knees before reaching down to the woman’s face to remove a bloodied strand of hair that had fallen across her open eye. He brushed his fingers over both her eyes forcing the lids down. Her body was already cooling under his touch as he stroked her cheek. With a sigh, he allowed himself a brief moment of sorrow before rising.

Taking a final glance, he stepped back to put some distance between himself and the lifeless body. “You said there was a problem?”

The man bounced a curled knuckle against his mouth, not wanting to look directly at him. “The child, Sir.”

“Yes, yes what about her?”

“She’s... she’s still alive. Upstairs in her bedroom.” He furrowed his brow. “We couldn’t kill her.”

Charles’s nostrils flared as he bared his teeth, and a low growl vibrated in his chest. “What do you mean you couldn’t kill her– there are five of you? Why couldn’t you kill one small child? What, you’ve all developed a moral sense of right and wrong? Feelings?” He scoffed.

The hairs on the back of the man’s thick neck prickled under the weight of Charles’s intense glare. “When I said we couldn’t kill her Sir, that’s what I meant–we couldn’t kill her, there’s something wrong with her.”

“What? Explain yourself. You’re not making any sense.”

The man shifted uncomfortably. “She’s cursed that one, something ain’t right with that child.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “She’s upstairs in her bedroom, you said?”

The man nodded his head. “Yeah, first room on the right, Sir. The lads are up there with her.”

Stepping over a broken vase he made his way towards the stairs. Standing at the bottom he noted how each wooden step was a different height. Placing his foot on the first step, it creaked and moaned under his weight.

As he reached the last stair, he sniffed the air. Cigarettes and the odour of stale sweat burned through his nose. But there was something else, a familiar aroma of talcum powder and warm milk. A smell reminiscent of his own childhood.

With long strides, he came to stand outside the child's room. Slightly ajar, he pushed it fully open and stepped inside.

His eyes widened to see four burley men, all sitting with their legs crossed around a small square picnic table. His eyes fell on the small child who leaned forward pouring each of the men imaginary cups of tea from a large pink teapot.

The girl, no more than five years old put the teapot down, and without warning slapped the hand of the man who sat closest to her. “No, no Mr Tinkles.” She shook her head as she pointed her small finger. “You won’t get a cookie if you dink without per... permi-permiss-i-on.”

“Sorry,” he grunted.

Charles cleared his throat and all four men looked up towards him, each face fixed with an empty haunting smile. “Leave us.”

The four men rose to their feet, relief visible on their faces as they left the room in single file.

Charles walked towards the table. He crouched down to look at the child and tilted his head to get a better look. Inhaling sharply, his heart stuttered as she peered into his eyes.

Long black eyelashes framed her big round blue eyes. Her raven black curly hair was tied neatly in a yellow ribbon and the light dusting of freckles across her nose looked like a snapshot out of time and suddenly he saw the image of his daughter at her age running towards him, arms open wide.

His cold heart was flooded with warmth and a feeling of total peace knocked him off balance. His backside connected with the cold hard floor beneath him. He tried to make sense of the strange feeling that surged around his gut.

“Hello Gand-father,” she said. Bubbly, full of high spirits, smiling brightly. Her tongue poked through her missing front tooth.

Still sat on his bottom, his smile was warm and genuine. It was unfathomable why he felt so happy and oddly relaxed. It was as if something had crept inside him and taken control of his emotions.

“Hello, my dear,” he replied and held out his hand to introduce himself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The man from downstairs stood in the doorway watching the interaction between the old man and the young child. He shivered, wanting to be anywhere rather than still there, in the cottage, full of death. “Do you need me to do anything else, Sir? Or can me and the lads get off?”

Charles was still smiling at the young child. “Have the dream-walker meet me at my home. No later than tomorrow night. And get the cleaners to strip this place bare–nothing gets left behind.”