Open Writing

In the corner of the old orchard where the last remaining apple tree spread gnarled branches across the fence a clump of alder grew, its leaves still yellow-green and deeply crinkled, not yet smoothed by summer sun. The tight new catkins stood erect, tiny impudent fingers defying the huge blue sky.

Hidden beneath the alder and the riotous growth of untrimmed currant bushes was a rustic seat. Here, out of sight, his eyes closed and his nostrils filled with the clove scent of currant blossom, Tom Shaunessy sat brooding.

Age had not diminished Tom’s bullish appearance. The short neck and heavy shoulders showed a strength that lingered well past his prime. He was not handsome, down right ugly some would say, an unfriendly loner who avoided the village folk.

Tom shifted, easing his body gently to avoid pain. He missed the excitement of earlier days. And the nights, especially the nights when his blood coursed strongly and with senses sharp as knife, he had stalked his victims with fearful tenacity.

His decline had become more obvious a year ago, after the night of summer solstice. On the eve of solstice when the moon was full Tom had gone to the churchyard. There he had sat watching, waiting, his deep darker instincts growing stronger ever stronger until he was overwhelmed by urges he could not contain. Tom had killed that night.

Later, as the ground mist swirled murkily about the tomb stones and the first hint of colour flowed into the landscape beyond the churchyard, Tom lay weary in the tall grass beside the lynch gate.

It was there the Clancy brothers found him. Bullies the two of them, young brash and ready for a fight. They taunted old Tom and called on him to prove himself. His energy already spent Tom was no match for the bigger Clancys. He lost an ear that night and one eye remained half closed. Tom’s physical vigour had diminished with age but his craving for fresh blood remained strong.

A sound caught Tom’s attention and his one good eye glinted. He slid quietly along the bench into the shade. Hidden by the dense greenery he leaned forward and watched as his new quarry, Bridget, appeared at the corner of the farm cottage.

Following the edge of the lawn Bridget moved slowly with many little pauses. She inspected a clump of blue pansies and stood a long moment with her head to one side gazing at the fat buds of the mallow flower and watched wistfully as a butterfly danced above her just out of reach. All the while she talked softly to herself moving closer and closer to where Tom crouched tense and hidden in the alder thicket. The old cruel instincts were stirring again.

Tom stretched cautiously and edged forward. How pretty Bridget was. So dainty and Tom was fascinated by the way she moved along the garden bed pausing at each new colour amid the flowers.

Tom was at the edge of the shelter now. A flurry of pink apple blossom passed over him falling to the ground about him but his eye was fixed on Bridget. Plump little Bridget, so close Tom could smell her scent.

Bridget paused yet again and looked intently at a ladybird crawling on a leaf and Tom left the cover of the bushes, moving silently behind her.

Sadie Shaunessy was washing the breakfast dishes and watching Bridget through the kitchen window. She saw Tom leave his hiding place, saw his evil intent.

Wrenching open the kitchen door, Sadie ran across the garden flapping a teatowel and wailing.

‘Oh Tom, Tom Shaunessy, you wicked old cat. You’ve murdered my best bantam!’